3  1822  01171   0191 


THE  REAL  DIARY  OF 


THE  WORST  FARMER 


HEJSRT  A.  SHUTE 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
SAN  OJEGO 


, 

u''7f    019-f 


P5 


THE  REAL  DIARY  OF  THE 
WORST  FARMER 


Holding  our  arms  outspread,  we  gradually  got  him 
in  a  corner  (page  38) 


THE  REAL  DIARY  OF 
THE  WORST  FARMER 


BY 
HENRY  A.  SHUTE 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
B.  MORGAN  DENNIS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,  BY   HENRY    A.    SHUTB 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


DEDICATION 

I  DEDICATE  this  book  to  amateur  farmers,  wherever  located,  and  in 
particular  to  professional  and  salaried  men  who  are  fortunate  enough 
to  possess,  by  prescription,  deed  of  purchase,  lease,  discovery,  or  squatter 
sovereignty,  enclosed  or  improved  land  sufficient  for  a  farm  or  garden, 
or  for  the  raising  of  domestic  animals. 

And  I  say  to  each  and  every  one  of  this  class  that  you  who  have 
inherited  a  love  for  the  soil  and  an  affection  for  domestic  animals  are 
fortunate.  And  I  believe  that  a  love  for  the  soil  and  a  keen  interest  in 
domestic  animals  may  be  acquired  by  you  who  have  not  inherited  it. 

Actual  money  profit  may  not  result,  either  from  the  cultivation  of 
the  soil,  or  from  raising  your  own  pork,  eggs,  poultry,  or  milk,  but  the 
greatest  pleasure  and  satisfaction  may  be  derived  from  an  interest  in 
such  pursuits,  which,  after  all,  is  the  main  point. 

Your  wife  may  at  times,  and  justly,  greet  you  with  marked  coldness 
on  your  return  from  the  office,  owing  to  some  lack  of  unanimity  hi  re 
gard  to  the  frescoing  of  the  ceiling  in  the  guest  room,  or  the  laying  of  hard 
wood  floors  in  the  front  hall;  your  daughter  may  resent  your  justifiable 
criticism  of  the  length  or  rather  the  brevity  of  her  skirts,  or  the  diaph 
anous  nature  of  her  hosiery,  and  may  not,  on  that  account,  welcome 
your  return  with  the  outspoken  affection  of  childhood;  your  son  may  feel 
aggrieved  over  your  frank  comment  as  to  his  taste  in  neckties  or  ciga 
rettes,  and  may  manifest  a  disconcerting  coolness  at  the  reunion,  but 
you  may  be  absolutely  sure  that  your  horse  will  turn  its  head,  prick  up 
its  ears,  and  whinny  with  delight  at  your  approach,  your  cow  moo  like 
the  bassoon  in  the  orchestra  and  lick  your  hands  with  her  rough  tongue, 
your  pig  twist  its  curly  tail  still  tighter  and  twinkle  its  little  piggy  eyes 
with  delight,  and  your  sheep  bleat  and  press  its  woolly  form  against 
your  knees  in  welcome. 

And  whatever  you  raise  of  crops  or  supplies  will  be  yours,  and  so  much 
more  of  the  world's  supply,  a  satisfaction  in  itself. 

"Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose." 

HENBY  A.  SHUTE 
Exeter,  New  Hampshire 
February  10,  1920 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Holding  our  arms  outspread,  we  gradually  got  him  in  a 
Corner  Frontispiece 

I  can  throw  a  heavy  coal  hod,  filled  with  hot  and  blinding 
ashes,  to  afar  greater  altitude  than  any  man  half  my  age      2 

Their  arrival  spoke  very  plainly  of  summer  62 

/  landed  in  somewhat  the  position  of  a  small  boy  after 
trying  an  unscientific  cartwheel  120 

Got  one  shot  to-day  at  a  Maltese  Tom  154 

Pacing  solemnly  along  in  their  best  clothes  158 

7  could  n't  tell  her  that  I  would  as  soon  feed  pigs  with  rat 
poison  180 

/  tried  my  new  axe  to-day  248 

I  don't  dare  to  think  what  my  pork  will  cost  me  a  pound  262 
7  handed  him  a  most  unchristian  wallop  266 

7  still  have  my  pork  barrel  276 

Drawn  by  MORGAN  DENNIS 


THE  REAL  DIARY  OF  THE 
WORST  FARMER 

Sunday.,  March  10,  191-.  Heard  a  bluebird  to 
day.  In  spite  of  my  great  age  (I  am  on  the  sunny 
side  of  sixty)  the  note  of  the  bluebird  always 
awakens  a  thrill  that  carries  me  back  to  my  boy 
hood.  One  is  sure  to  hear  a  bluebird  several  times 
before  one  sees  it,  and  this  year  was  no  exception. 
I  heard  the  musical  warble  as  I  came  up  through 
the  bulkhead  from  the  furnace  room  with  a  hod  of 
ashes. 

It  is  one  of  the  charmingly  informal  duties  in 
cidental  to  my  residence  in  a  country  town,  and 
to  the  somewhat  limited  income  of  a  country 
attorney  and  counsellor-at-law,  to  commence  the 
day  with  a  hand-to-hand  struggle  with  the  fur 
nace  fire. 

The  open  season  on  furnaces  is  from  October 
to  May.  In  the  language  of  the  lawyer  it  is  from 
on  or  about  the  first  day  of  October  to  on  or  about 
the  first  day  of  the  ensuing  May. 

This  elastic  description  allows  for  the  uncer 
tainty  of  our  New  England  climate  which  is 

"Variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made." 


2          The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

But  for  a  full  seven  months  in  the  year  I  shovel 
coal,  and  thriftily  sift  ashes,  and  painfully  and 
daily  climb  out  of  the  furnace  room  with  huge 
hods  of  ashes  that  represent  an  enormous  daily 
consumption  of  coal,  with  somewhat  negligible 
results  in  the  way  of  heat  (so  my  wife  says),  and 
dump  the  same  in  a  growing  heap  just  off  the 
driveway. 

There  is  a  somewhat  fascinating  element  of 
chance  in  my  daily  emergence  from  the  furnace 
room.  If  snow  has  fallen  heavily  or  the  drip  from 
the  eaves  has  frozen  during  the  night,  I  find  it 
practically  impossible  to  lift  the  bulkhead  doors 
from  below,  even  though  I  hump  myself  to  my 
utmost.  To  secure  peaceful  egress  I  am  obliged  to 
go  out  by  the  side  door  and  to  remove  the  ob 
struction  by  the  timely  assistance  of  snow-shovel, 
ice-chisel,  or  hot  water. 

Occasionally  articles  foreign  to  a  bulkhead  are 
left  there,  and  after  straining  every  nerve  in  a 
bloodvessel-bursting  effort  to  lift  the  bulkhead 
doors,  I  find,  on  further  examination,  a  misplaced 
cord  of  wood,  or  the  rear  wheels  of  a  heavy  cart, 
or  a  mammoth  pile  of  unbeaten  rugs  resting 
peacefully  on  my  only  direct  communication  with 
the  open  air. 

Even  when  I  have  succeeded  in  blazing  a  trail 
from  the  furnace  room  to  the  ashpile  I  am  by  no 
means  confident  of  success.  The  decline  from  the 


I  can  throw  a  heavy  coal  hod,  filled  with  hot  and  blinding 
ashes,  to  a  far  greater  altitude  than  any  man  half  my  age 


Senile  Gymnastics  3 

bulkhead  to  the  driveway  is  ofttimes  slippery 
from  ice  and  frost,  and  accidents,  terrible  acci 
dents,  will  happen.  And  yet  there  is  an  element 
of  profound  satisfaction  in  these  accidents,  pain 
ful  and  humiliating  though  they  be.  This  is  at 
least  one  of  the  accomplishments  in  which  I  am 
proud  to  say  I  am  far  more  expert  than  in  my 
youth  and  young  manhood.  I  can  fall  quicker, 
more  frequently,  and  with  far  greater  violence, 
and  injure  myself  much  more  fatally  than  I  ever 
could  when  a  young  man.  And  I  can,  I  am  sure, 
throw  a  heavy  coal  hod,  rilled  with  hot  and  blind 
ing  ashes,  to  a  far  greater  altitude  than  any  man 
half  my  age,  and  receive  a  greater  proportion  of 
the  contents  upon  my  person  than  any  man  in 
the  neighborhood,  and,  I  believe,  in  the  town, 
county,  or  state. 

Let  me  see,  I  believe  I  was  talking  about  a 
bluebird.  Well,  I  heard  one  to-day. 

Monday,  March  11,  191-.  I  heard  that  bluebird 
again  this  morning  and  experienced  the  same 
thrill,  although  I  had,  but  a  few  minutes  before, 
made  the  horrifying  discovery  that  my  furnace 
fire  had  gone  west  during  the  night,  and  I  was 
steeped  in  coal  dust  to  my  ears,  and  abraded, 
from  clinkers,  to  my  elbows. 

None  the  less  I  was  thrilled  at  the  delightful 
sound,  but  with  the  sole  difference  that  the  thrill 


4          The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

was  less  permanent,  and  as  Alexander  Selkirk  is 
supposed  to  have  remarked  in  smoothly  flowing 
measures  — 

"But  alas!  recollection  at  hand 
Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair." 

So  I  craned  my  neck  until  it  creaked,  looked  and 
listened  until  more  sordid  duties  called  me,  but 
did  not  see  the  bluebird.  But  I  saw  the  sun  com 
ing  up  above  the  huge,  naked  elms  to  the  east  of 
my  house  and  turning  the  frost  to  gems  of  silver 
and  gold,  and  I  heard  the  bluebird. 

Tuesday,  March  12, 191-.  This  morning  was  cold 
and  raw  and  overcast.  I  did  not  hear  the  blue 
bird.  I  feel  as  if  I  have  made  no  progress  whatso 
ever  and  that  the  future  is  the  reverse  of  roseate. 
I  feel  very  much  as  did  the  agricultural  gentle 
man  who  admonished  his  hired  man  as  follows: 

"Terday  's  Monday,  'n'  termorrer's  Tewsday, 
and  th'  next  day  is  Wednesday.  Haff  the  week 
gone  an'  not  a  dummed  thing  did." 

There  are  few  sadder  sounds  than  the  scraping 
of  a  shovel  on  the  floor  of  a  practically  empty  coal 
bin.  I  must  order  some  more  coal. 

Wednesday,  March  13,  191-.  The  sun  came  out 
this  afternoon  and  I  saw  three  crows  slowly  fly 
ing  northward.  I  am  sure  they  are  the  same  crows 
I  have  seen  all  winter,  but  there  seemed  to  be 


The  Bluebird  5 

something  springlike  in  their  hoarse  voices.  I  sup 
pose  spring  is  really  coming,  but  its  effect  upon 
joints  rusted  through  age  is  extremely  slow.  Still 
it  is  a  most  hopeful  sign  to  hear  a  bluebird.  I 
wish  I  might  see  the  little  chap. 

Thursday,  March  14,  191-.  Spring  has  surely 
come,  for  this  morning  I  saw  that  bluebird.  He 
was  inspecting  a  hole  in  the  limb  of  an  apple  tree 
in  the  garden  and  warbling  as  if  he  liked  his  job. 
Of  course  he  will  not  bring  his  mate  and  build 
there.  Bluebirds  seldom  do  build  in  the  tenements 
they  examine  so  carefully  in  early  spring.  He 
praises  the  view  from  the  front  window,  and  in 
quires  if  the  roof  is  tight  and  whether  or  not  the 
chimney  will  draw,  but  he  seldom  moves  in.  As 
he  warbles  I  can  almost  hear  him  say,  "Of  course 
you  will  paper  and  paint  all  the  rooms  and  mo- 
resco  the  ceilings,  and  put  hardwood  floors  in  all 
the  rooms  on  the  lower  floor  and  in  the  two  front 
chambers,  and,  let  me  see,  we  must  have  electric 
ity  in  place  of,  or  rather  in  addition  to,  gas,  to 
run  the  vacuum  cleaner,  and  the  range  must  be 
thoroughly  overhauled  and  the  furnace  gone 
over,  and  oh,  I  forgot,  the  coils  are  a  disgrace  and 
must  be  gilded  or  silvered  and  the  front  steps 
must  be  painted  in  some  attractive  color." 

Of  course  I  am  ready  to  promise  anything  if  he 
will  lease  the  tenement  for  the  season,  but  I  am 


6          The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

convinced  that  he  will  not.  Later  on  he  will  bring 
his  mate  and  she  will  want  everything  that  he 
forgot,  all  of  which  I  will  readily  promise.  But  in 
the  end  he  and  his  mate  will  nest  in  a  hole  in  a 
pasture  post  or  in  a  dead  apple  tree  there.  They 
are  the  most  indefatigable,  delightful,  and  wholly 
unreliable  house-hunters  of  the  birds. 

Later  the  robin  will  come  and  lease  a  crotch  in 
a  limb,  a  projection  under  the  porch  or  a  hollow 
at  the  apex  of  a  bent  branch,  and  build  his  adobe 
hut  while  the  bluebirds  are  still  house-hunting; 
the  chippy  will  engage  quarters  in  the  pear  tree, 
the  crabapple  tree,  or  the  cherry  tree,  and  build 
its  shallow  nest  of  the  long  hairs  from  a  cow's  tail. 

They  ask  little  of  their  landlord  but  the  right 
to  build,  upholster,  and  furnish  their  tenements. 

The  golden  robins  arrive  still  later  at  about 
apple-blossom  time,  realizing,  of  course,  that 
there  is  little  competition  with  any  other  family 
of  birds  for  the  bending  tips  of  lofty  branches 
where  they  build.  All  they  ask  is  a  tall  elm,  a 
gracefully  bending  branch,  and  a  supply  of  yarn, 
twine,  and  ravelled  clothesline.  With  these  they 
are  content  and  grateful.  They  do  not  refuse 
other  articles  that  may  be  woven  tastefully  into 
their  nests,  such  as  a  bit  of  honiton  guipure  or 
honiton  applique,  Valenciennes,  or  real  Irish  lace, 
a  silken  garter,  a  billet-doux,  a  promissory  note 
or  a  two-dollar  bill. 


A  March  Storm  7 

But  I  am  really  getting  far  ahead  of  the  season. 
It  is  March  and  snow  is  still  deep  in  the  woods. 
Truly  one  swallow  may  not  make  a  summer,  but 
one  bluebird  will  awake  a  host  of  memories. 

Friday,  March  15,  191-.  A  damp,  heavy  snow  is 
falling.  The  bluebird  has  departed,  temporarily, 
I  hope.  The  snow  has  brought  the  jays  from  the 
depths  of  the  woods.  I  do  not  know  the  reason, 
but  a  damp  snow  usually  brings  out  the  jays.  A 
score  of  them  are  screaming  in  a  big  oak  tree 
behind  the  house. 

The  storm  will  be  brief,  for  a  long  storm  keeps 
them  in  the  deep  woods. 

I  am  thinking  of  farming  a  bit  this  spring  and 
summer.  I  tried  it  several  years  ago  for  a  year 
and  derived  the  greatest  pleasure  and  mental 
and  physical  benefit  possible  from  it.  I  gladdened 
the  hearts  of  dealers  in  seeds,  bulbs,  cuttings, 
immature  trees  and  shrubs,  sulky  ploughs,  lawn- 
mowers,  potato-diggers,  hoes,  rakes,  shovels,  in 
cubators,  plain  and  fancy  fowls,  vermifuges,  de 
odorizers,  caponizers,  blooded  cattle,  rat  poisons, 
ferrets,  mangel-wurzels,  and  root  crops  of  all 
kinds  and  natures. 

I  furnished  a  target  for  shafts  of  bucolic  wit 
from  every  rural  acquaintance,  and  finally  I  wrote 
a  book  about  it  which  I  have  never  been  able  to 
find  in  any  standard  library  since. 


8          The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

But  I  hacfa  good  time  and  spent  a  good  deal  of 
money,  which,  as  it  was  my  own  and  honestly 
earned,  is  no  business  of  any  one  but  myself  and 
the  members  of  my  own  family. 

Farm  fever  is  very  like  hen  fever*and  the  effect 
of  undue  familiarity  with  poison  ivy.  Once  con 
tracted  it  is  recurrent.  I  really  believe  I  feel  the 
symptoms. 

Saturday,  March  16,  191-.  It  cleared  at  dusk 
last  night  and  grew  colder.  This  morning  a  bit 
ter,  searching  wind  is  thrashing  the  dark  green 
branches  of  the  pines  and  firs  and  sending  down 
showers  of  needles  and  cones.  Not  a  bird  in  sight. 
Even  the  English  sparrows  are  hidden  under  the 
eaves  in  the  deserted  pigeon  and  poultry  houses. 
My  symptoms  of  farm  fever  have  abated.  I  am 
morally  certain  that  the  bluebird  has  fallen  a 
victim  of  his  unseasonable  visit. 

The  wind  is  due  north  and  from  the  heart  of  an 
iceberg.  I  have  an  extra  supply  of  ashes  this 
morning  and  hurry  to  the  ash  pile  to  escape  the 
bitter  cold.  I  have  wound  a  knitted  scarf  around 
my  neck.  It  is  my  daughter's  scarf.  She  should 
not  have  left  it  in  the  kitchen.  I  hurry  across  the 
driveway,  passing  under  a  wire  clothesline.  The 
wind  whips  the  ends  of  my  scarf  around  the  line 
and  ties  them  in  a  hard  knot.  I  am  suddenly 
plucked  into  the  air  by  the  neck.  My  heels  are 


A  Hod  of  Ashes  in  a  High  Wind  9 

higher  than  my  head  and  the  hod  higher  than 
my  heels.  I  instantly  disappear  in  a  swirling 
cloud  of  coal  ashes.  I  strongly  resemble  a  whoop 
ing  crane  emerging  from  a  silvery  cloud  on  a 
Japanese  fire  screen. 

When  the  mists  have  cleared  away  I  find  my 
self  firmly  tethered  by  the  neck  to  the  wire  like 
a  bulldog  or  a  halter-pulling  horse,  while  my 
hat  and  the  hod  are  merrily  bounding  across  the 
field  in  a  neck-and-neck  race,  preceded  by  a  di 
minishing  cloud  of  ashes.  I  disengage  my  neck 
with  vast  difficulty  and  gingerly|try  it  to  see  if 
it  is  broken.  It  is  not.  Merely  elongated  a  bit. 
In  time  it  will  probably  shrink  into  shape.  But 
I  no  longer  think  of  farming. 

I  wish  I  lived  in  a  city  in  the  heart  of  a  com 
munity  heating  plant. 

Sunday,  March  17,  191-.  It  is  Sunday  and  warm 
and  the  bluebird  is  back.  Indeed  I  have  seen 
two.  When  I  tried  amateur  farming  a  few  years 
ago  I  looked  forward  to  Sunday  as  a  sort  of 
clean-up  day.  I  always  gave  my  cow  and  horses 
an  extra  rubdown  and  extra  feed.  I  swept  the 
barn  and  the  stable  floor,  occasionally  washed 
a  buggy  or  soaped  and  oiled  a  harness,  and  in 
short  had  a  good  time. 

I  always  timed  myself  so  accurately  that  when 
the  church  bells  burst  into  a  joyous  carillon,  and 


10        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

sober  citizens  in  black  and  citizenesses  in  brave 
array,  leading,  preceded,  or  followed  by  sulky- 
faced  and  rebellious-eyed  boys  in  knickers,  Eton 
collars,  and  shoes  of  wondrous  sheen,  and  little 
girls  in  white  and  lace,  with  plump  legs  uphol 
stered  with  short  stockings  and  embossed  with 
mosquito  -  bites,  and  carrying  Sunday  -  School 
Quarterlies  and  Day  springs  under  their  arms, 
are  pacing  solemnly  to  church,  and  my  wife  and 
daughter, clad  in  rich,  expensive,  and  plain  but  ele 
gant  frocks  (if  either  of  these  ladies  ever  reads 
this  diary,  I  shall  pay  dearly  for  this),  I  am  cov 
ered  with  dust,  dirt,  wheelgrease,  or  harness  oil, 
unwashed,  unshaven,  and  ready  with  persuasive 
assurances  that  I  did  n't  do  it  purposely,  but 
really  there  were  so  many  things  to  do  and  I 
did  n't  feel  able  to  hire  a  man  to  do  them,  for  if 
I  did  they  could  n't  dress  as  well,  which  argu 
ment  always  sends  them  off  stiff -legged  with  in 
dignation  and  closes  the  conference. 

It  was  wrong,  very  wrong.  That  my  religious 
training  forces  me  to  admit.  But  it  was  very  de 
lightful.  A  sunny  day  in  March  with  the  remain 
ing  snow  melting  in  the  sun,  a  bluebird  warbling, 
a  hen  cackling  in  the  hen  yard,  a  cow  with  her 
head  thrust  out  of  a  barn  window  lowing  her 
delight  at  the  returning  spring  —  what  is  more 
delightful?  The  mud  may  be  inches  deep;  the 
grass  dead,  gray  and  soaked ;  the  garden  a  tangle 


11 

of  last  year's  weeds;  but  the  sun  and  the  sounds 
and  the  smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  little  gray 
bird  that  threads  the  maze  of  dead  grasses  like  a 
sprite  make  one's  heart  as  light  as  a  boy's. 

To-day  I  opened  all  the  barn  doors.  They  had 
not  been  opened  all  winter.  It  was  mouldy  in 
smell,  and  dry  and  dead  and  dismal  at  first,  but 
in  a  short  time  the  sun  and  fresh  air  had  made  a 
wonderful  change.  I  really  think  that  old  houses 
and  barns  die  of  grief  when  left  untenanted.  Why 
not?  I  am  sure  I  should. 

The  farm  tools  hung  up  in  the  harness  room 
and  stored  in  corners  seemed  like  old  friends. 
I  have  the  symptoms,  I  am  sure.  I  believe  I  will 
try  it.  I  may  be  able  to  do  something  at  it.  Why 
not?  Every  farmer  thinks  he  knows  more  law 
than  I  do.  I  do  not  think  a  farmer  ever  came  into 
my  office  for  advice  but  frankly  admitted  that 
he  knew  more  than  I  did  about  it.  Quite  a  num 
ber  of  farmers  who  have  employed  me  in  legal 
matters  have  said  openly  and  without  reserva 
tion  that  they  would  have  done  better  to  have 
managed  their  affairs  without  my  assistance. 

One  husbandman  said  I  was  too  damned  ex 
pensive  for  him.  I  did  n't  quite  catch  his  point 
of  view,  for,  inasmuch  as  he  never  paid  me  a 
cent,  it  seemed  to  my  somewhat  opaque  under 
standing  that  he  was  too  damned  expensive  for 
me. 


12        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Farmers  are  as  a  rule  honest,  hard-working, 
shrewd,  and  able  men.  But  they  have  some  pe 
culiar  traits.  I  think  as  a  rule  the  ordinary  farmer 
feels  sure  that  the  case  he  entrusts  to  his  lawyer 
is  the  only  one  that  lawyer  ever  had  or  ever  will 
have.  Three  years  or  more  ago  a  farmer,  whom 
I  may  not  have  seen  before,  enters  my  office  and 
takes  advice  as  to  the  conveyance  of  a  farm.  To 
make  the  title  clear  a  third  party  must  sign  a 
quitclaim  deed.  The  party's  name  is  Mary  Jane 
or  Esther  or  Maude.  Taking  my  instructions 
from  the  farmer  and  my  law  from  his  superior 
equipment,  I  draw  the  necessary  papers  and 
make  timid  suggestions  as  to  the  proper  execu 
tion.  He  takes  the  papers  back  to  his  home,  a 
score  of  miles  away,  and  the  matter  passes  out 
of  my  mind.  At  the  end  of  the  week  I  have  for 
gotten  his  existence.  To-day,  after  the  passing 
of  three  busy  years,  he  appears  at  my  office  and 
imparts  the  information  that  Esther  or  Mary 
Jane  or  Maude  refuses  to  sign. 

I  am  naturally  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  under 
stand,  and  as  he  acts  for  all  the  world  as  if  he 
thought  I  was  to  blame  for  their  refusal,  I  have 
been  known  to  ask  somewhat  profanely  as  to  who 
in  hell  Esther  might  be  and  what  in  hell  she 
refuses  to  sign.  And  I  may,  if  I  feel  in  the  mood, 
explain  good-naturedly  that  I  am  sorry,  but  I 
really  don't  quite  know  who  he  is  and  am  com- 


Farmer  Clients  13 

pletely  in  the  dark  as  to  the  identity  of  Mary  Jane 
or  Esther  or  Maude. 

The  result  is  the  same  in  either  case,  for  he 
emphatically  declines  to  have  any  further  busi 
ness  relations  with  a  lawyer  who  has  so  poor  a 
memory  as  I  have,  and  indignantly  takes  his  af 
fairs  and  those  of  Mary  Jane  or  Esther  or  Maude 
to  a  real  lawyer  for  settlement. 

Another  thing  of  frequent  occurrence  is  to  have 
a  farmer  drive  up  in  a  motor  that  I  shouldn't 
be  able  to  buy  and  operate  if  I  had  no  bills  to 
pay  for  the  next  ten  years,  and  enter  my  office 
at  about  12.30,  when  I  am  just  changing  from  my 
office  coat  to  go  to  my  noon  dinner.  He  enters 
with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  with  the 
words,  "  I  thought  I  would  catch  you  before  you 
left  for  dinner." 

I  resume  my  office  coat  and  he  sits  down  with 
the  utmost  deliberation.  Then  he  brings  out  a 
pile  of  bills  and  receipts  and  a  probate  account, 
so  mixed  up  that  it  requires  a  couple  of  hours' 
hard  work  to  disentangle  it,  which  is  made  more 
difficult  by  the  necessity  of  explaining  every 
thing  and  nearly  going  to  the  mat  with  him  on 
every  point. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  knowing  that  the  chaste 
frugality  of  my  home  dinner  has  been  made  more 
so  by  the  fact  that  the  dinner  is  stone-cold  and 
my  wife  probably  red-hot  at  my  unexplained 


14        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

delay,  I  telephone  her  that  I  am  delayed,  which 
really  is  rather  stale  news  under  the  circumstances 
and  elicits  a  reply  of  marvellous  coldness  consider 
ing  her  quite  justifiable  temperature,  to  the  effect 
that  I  might  have  had  consideration  enough  to 
have  let  her  know  earlier  so  that  she  might  at 
least  have  eaten  her  dinner  while  it  was  hot. 

I  am  in  a  mood  to  reply  warmly,  but  a  quarrel 
through  a  telephone  is  too  much  like  making 
faces  at  an  enemy,  and  I  have  all  I  can  do  to 
keep  my  temper  with  my  client. 

At  the  end  of  another  hour  I  am  tortured  with 
visions  of  juicy  roasts,  and  fat  fried  oysters  and 
inch-thick  steaks  and  French  fried  potatoes  and 
mince  pie  and  cheese,  coffee  and  cigarettes,  and 
I  would  give  a  dollar  and  a  half  for  a  drink  of 
water. 

In  a  half -hour  more  black  specks  are  floating 
before  my  fevered  eyes,  my  head  is  swimming 
like  a  gyroscope,  and  I  could  n't  for  my  life  dis 
tinguish  a  promissory  note  from  the  seventh  com 
mandment,  and  I  call  a  halt  and  inform  my  client 
that  I  must  get  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  sandwich 
before  going  on,  and  invite  him  to  go  to  a  restau 
rant  and  have  a  social  snack. 

And  when  he  attempts  to  dissuade  me  on  the 
ground  that  he  is  in  a  hurry,  and  it  transpires 
that  at  half -past  eleven  he  ate  a  hearty  dinner 
because  "he  'lowed  't  would  take  me  consider- 


Am  I  to  blame?  15 

able  spell  tew  wurk  it  aout  'n'  so  he  tuck  his 
dinner  a  bit  arly  so  ez  to  ketch  yeou  afore  yeou 
started  for  yeourn,"  am  I  to  blame  for  telling  him 
to  take  his  damned  account  to  hell  with  him? 
Am  I  to  blame? 

And  yet  they  say  I  lose  business  on  account  of 
my  ungovernable  temper. 

Monday,  March  18,  191-.  I  got  a  seed  catalogue 
to-day.  Is  it  merely  a  coincidence  or  can  the 
people  that  get  up  seed  catalogues  read  a  man's 
mind?  I  wonder.  At  all  events,  I  received  by  mail 
a  most  ornate  catalogue.  To-night  I  will  get  a 
chance  to  look  it  over.  I  have  a  half-dozen  uncut 
magazines  and  a  new  box  of  Pall  Mall  cigarettes. 
I  only  smoke  them  on  special  occasions.  The 
receipt  of  a  seed  catalogue  at  this  particular  time 
is  a  special  occasion.  I  shall  put  aside  the  maga 
zines  and  pay  strict  attention  to  the  seed  cata 
logues  —  and  the  cigarettes. 

Tuesday,  March  19, 191-.  I  believe  I  will  begin  by 
buying  pigs,  b'goshamity!  I  have  read  in  a  mag 
azine  of  the  tremendous  scarcity  of  pork,  and, 
indeed,  of  all  lubricants,  due  to  war  demand. 
Indeed,  it  has  come  to  such  an  acute  stage  that 
people  in  France,  Germany,  and  Belgium  eat 
soap  whenever  they  can  lay  hands  on  a  bit  of  it. 
Owing  to  the  skyrocketing  of  prices  of  pork, 


16        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

lard,  and  bacon,  we  may  be  in  the  same  plight.  It 
does  not  seem  to  me  that  I  could  come  to  the 
point  of  eating  or  inviting  a  friend  or  casual  visi 
tor  or  client  to  partake  of  a  course  of  different 
preparations  of  soap  however  appetizingly  cooked 
and  served. 

Still,  one  never  knows  what  one  can  do  under 
the  spur  of  compulsion.  Time  was  when  an  olive 
would  pucker  my  mouth  up  until  it  resembled 
the  stem  end  of  a  tomato.  Now  I  love  them.  It 
was  difficult  for  me  to  really  relish  salad  oil  or 
salad  dressing  on  quartered  oranges  or  hothouse 
grapes.  Entre  nous,  I  don't  quite  fancy  it  now, 
but  I  can  eat  it  with  a  smile  when  my  back  is 
to  the  wall  and  there  is  no  way  out. 

In  spite  of  this  I  may  enter  a  restaurant  or 
attend  a  banquet  of 

Queues  de  Coq  carboliques 
Soupe  aux  suds  de  Savon  Mofi 

Roti 

Savon  de  Castile  Roti  au  gout  de  la  Reine 
Entrees  de  Savon  "It  floats"  et  "Have  you  used  Pears" 

Salades 

Au  Cuticura,  et  Goudron  Anticeptique 
Suds  Frapp£s  de  Savon  Commun 

Petits  Gateaux  de  Savon 
Demitasses  de  Savon  Liquide 

Now  any  man  with  a  particle  of  Americanism 
in  his  make-up  will  do  anything  to  avoid  such  a 
contingency,  and  never  shall  it  be  said  that  "I 


Pigpen  Architecture  17 

seen  my  duty  and  ain't  done  it."  I  will  build  a 
pen  and  buy  a  pair  of  infant  piglets  and  watch 
them  grow,  and  thus  serve  my  country. 

Wednesday,  March  20,  191-.  This  morning  I  or 
dered  some  boards,  heavy  wire,  posts,  spikes,  and 
wire  nails  to  be  delivered  before  noon.  This  after 
noon  I  left  the  offices  to  my  son  and  partner,  who 
is  really  a  much  better  lawyer  than  I  am,  and  has 
a  higher  opinion  of  the  value  of  the  firm's  serv 
ices  than  has  his  father.  So  it  is  a  pretty  safe 
bet  to  leave  things  to  him.  But  when  it  comes  to 
farming  and  the  care  of  domestic  animals  — 
well !  what  that  boy  does  n't  know  about  such 
things  is  appalling,  simply  appalling. 

I  started  in  this  afternoon  to  build  a  pen.  I 
used  a  large  double  stall  in  the  horse  stable.  To 
fence  it  in  I  used  a  door  from  the  shed,  nailed 
lengthwise  across  the  opening.  We  take  the  door 
off  in  the  spring.  It  was  too  long  by  about  six 
inches,  so  I  sawed  six  inches  from  the  lower  end. 

It  made  a  very  good  fence,  just  high  enough  to 
rest  one's  elbows  on  comfortably  to  see  the  pigs 
eat  and  grow.  I  am  becoming  quite  a  carpenter 
as  well  as  farmer. 

I  suppose  I  may  have  to,  nay,  shall  have  to 
put  that  door  back  in  the  fall  to  keep  the  shed 
warm.  The  six-inch  aperture  at  the  bottom  of  the 
door  will  be  very  convenient  to  afford  ingress  or 


18        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

egress  for  the  house  cat.  I  have  always  objected 
strenuously  to  adopting  a  house  cat,  but  it  looks 
as  if  some  explanation  of  the  abbreviation  of  that 
door  will  be  in  order  when  my  wife  sees  it  next 
fall.  I  wonder  if  much  cold  will  seep  in  through 
an  aperture  six  inches  by  thirty-six.  Perhaps  a 
scrim  or  a  sash  curtain  or  some  kind  of  a  barrier 
or  windbreak  arrangement  may  be  devised.  This 
is  a  time  when  ingenuity  must  be  encouraged. 
At  all  events,  I  need  not  worry  before  November 
next,  and  many  things  may  happen  before  then. 

Thursday,  March  21,  191-.  I  think  I  contracted 
a  slight  cold  working  on  the  pigpen  yesterday. 
This  morning  I  was  as  stiff  as  a  slice  of  baker's 
bread  toasted.  I  thought  it  would  wear  off  if  I 
started  work.  So  I  arose  earlier  than  usual  and 
put  in  a  couple  of  hours'  hard  work  with  a  post- 
hole  digger.  So  far  the  remedy  has  not  proved 
efficacious.  I  am,  if  anything,  a  good  bit  stiffer 
to-night  than  I  was  this  morning.  I  did  n't  sup 
pose  it  possible  and  I  used  the  strongest  possible 
illustration.  If  there  is  anything  stiffer  than 
baker's  bread  toasted,  I  am  it. 

I  am  thankful  there  was  no  police  court  to 
day.  I  am  sure  it  would  have  gone  hard  with 
offenders. 

I  ordered  my  pigs  to-day  unsight  and  unseen. 
I  feel  sure  they  are  remarkable  animals.  I  am 


Red-Hot  Fishhooks  19 

to  pay  enough  for  them.  I  think  I  will  go  to  bed 
earlier  to-night  for  I  am  to  have  my  pigs  de 
livered  to-morrow  and  it  will  be  a  milestone  on 
the  road  to  farm  life. 

Friday, March  22, 191-.  Sciatica!  If  I  —  ouch!  — 
could  —  ow !  —  oee !  —  turn  over  without  a  — 
Holy  Christopher!  — damn  derrick,  perhaps  I 
could  —  hell  and  repeat!  —  get  up  out  of  this 
dud-dud-damn  bed  and  —  whew  ee !  I  can't  do  it. 

Saturday,  March  23,  191-.  In  bed  with  a  red-hot 
fishhook  being  pulled  to  and  fro  in  my  hip  joint 
every  time  I  move. 

Sunday,  March  24,  191-.  Sunday  again.  Still  in 
bed,  with  a  March  blizzard  blowing.  I  always 
thought  it  a  great  treat  to  be  comfortably  ill  in 
bed  and  to  have  a  good  novel  to  read  and  a  beau 
tiful  snowstorm  to  look  at  through  the  window. 
I  have  attained  the  bed  and  the  snowstorm,  and 
I  may  have  the  novel  for  the  asking,  but  as  I 
cannot  bat  an  eyelash  without  setting  a  thou 
sand  devils  gouging  at  my  hip  joint  with  red-hot 
darning  needles,  it  cannot  be  said  that  I  am 
comfortably  ill. 

Rheumatism  may  be  a  proud  inheritance  of  the 
agriculturalist  as  gout  is  an  heirloom  of  the  rich 
and  great,  to  be  handed  down  from  generation 


20        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

to  generation,  but  I  want  none  of  it.  I  will  quit 
farming  forever.  Damn  farming,  anyway. 

Monday,  March  25, 191-.  I  am  confident  that  my 
wife  and  daughter  are  laughing  at  me.  Of  course  I 
have  n't  actually  detected  them  or  caught  them 
red-handed,  but  they  have  a  gallus  expression 
when,  my  endurance  strained  to  the  breaking 
point,  I  yield  to  the  relief  of  progressive  profanity. 

Tuesday,  March  26,  191-.  The  storm  is  over  and 
the  sun  out.  I  felt  a  bit  better  to-day  and  man 
aged  to  sit  up  in  bed.  It  was  hard  and  painful, 
but  my  triceps  have  not  entirely  forgotten  the 
parallel-bar  training  they  had  in  college.  I  think 
possibly  I  may  be  able  to  get  out  by  fall. 

Wednesday,  March  27,  191-.  Still  in  bed.  This 
afternoon  the  DTndy  Club  met  in  the  music- 
room.  My  wife  said  it  would  entertain  me,  and  if 
I  did  n't  mind  she  would  leave  my  door  open. 
I  did  n't  mind.  The  D'Indy  Club  is  a  very  correct 
institution.  Its  members  are  all  musicians.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  of  that.  They  plead  guilty  to 
the  charge.  They  meet  frequently.  After  hearing 
their  recital  this  afternoon  I  have  no  hesitation 
in  a  frank  but  modest  statement  that  they  meet 
altogether  too  frequently. 
They  aim  to  interpret  the  modern  composers, 


The  D'Indy  Club  21 

but  as  a  club  they  have  no  healthy  contempt 
for  Beethoven,  Mendelssohn,  Bach,  Schumann, 
Schubert,  and  other  worthies  of  the  past.  To 
day  they  are  going  to  play  Schubert's  "Un 
finished  Symphony,"  arranged  for  two  pianos 
and  violin.  All  the  morning  skilled  and  expensive 
artisans  have  been  tuning  my  wife's  piano  to 
harmonize  with  my  daughter's,  and  have  been 
striking  single  tones  with  a  cursed  persistence 
that  somehow  connected  with  my  rusty  and  in 
flamed  hip  joint  until  I  felt  out  of  tune  with 
everything  under  the  canopy. 

This  finished,  rude  truckmen  came  and  moved 
the  library  piano  to  the  music-room  and  shook 
the  house  violently,  to  my  exceeding  torture. 
However,  this  afternoon  I  shall  hear  the  "Un 
finished  Symphony"  in  B  Moll. 

Schubert  is  said  to  have  written  over  six  hun 
dred  songs.  Some  are  beautiful;  some  are  of  such 
a  nature  that  I  am  convinced  that  in  his  last 
hours  the  thought  that  he  would  be  quit  of  them 
was  an  inexpressible  comfort  to  him. 

This  afternoon  the  doctor  came  just  before  the 
club  members  began  to  arrive  and  administered 
an  opiate  to  guard  against  too  much  musical  en 
thusiasm.  I  invited  him  to  remain,  and  he  replied 
that  it  looked  very  much  as  if  he  would  have  to, 
as  there  did  n't  seem  any  way  of  getting  out 
without  running  the  gantlet. 


22        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

After  fifteen  minutes  of  running  up  and  down 
stairs  by  the  members  and  leaving  wraps  and 
settling  themselves  in  comfortable  chairs  to  lis 
ten,  the  symphony  began  with  a  short  andante 
molto  expressivo,  played  on  one  piano.  At  the  end 
of  about  a  dozen  measures  the  other  piano  came 
in  with  a  few  thunderous  chords  that  somehow 
did  n't  seem  to  belong  there.  The  doctor,  who 
had  fortified  himself  with  a  strong  black  cigar, 
jumped  as  if  he  had  been  shot  and  bit  his  cigar 
completely  in  twain. 

I  jumped  and  hurt  my  hip  joint  outrageously, 
and  howled.  "Doctor,"  I  said,  when  the  pain  had 
subsided,  "there  was  just  a  soupgon  of  embon 
point  in  that  fortissimo  that  veiled  the  leit  motif 
of  the  sostenuto." 

"Humph!"  said  the  doctor,  and  after  feeling 
of  my  pulse,  administered  eight  grains  of  chloral. 

The  symphony  went  on  raucoso  et  grandioso. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  concerted  crash  of  chords 
in  contrapuntal  dissonance  and  rapid  chroma- 
tique  of  eight  facile  hands  and  eighty  agile  fingers. 

"The  chromatico  contradictio  of  that  bravura 
passage  is  piu  decisamento  for  the  post-mortem, 
Doctor,"  I  said  lightly. 

"Humph!"  again  said  the  doctor,  casting  a 
keen  professional  glance  at  me,  and  arising  he 
administered  an  opiate  in  whiskey,  incidentally 
taking  a  four-finger  snifter  himself. 


Andante  Strepitoso  23 

The  players  then  wandered  or  rather  galloped 
into  a  melange  of  tonal  contradictions  in  which 
the  ne  plus  ultra  of  the  chaconnade  seemed  to  be 
altogether  too  ben  marcato  for  the  sub  rosa.  I  so 
remarked  to  the  doctor,  and  he  took  his  stetho 
scope  from  its  case  and  examined  my  chest  care 
fully  and  thumped  me  between  the  shoulders  in 
excellent  tempo  with  the  four  pianists,  until  I 
begged  him  to  desist.  The  doctor  took  another 
drink  and  lighted  another  black  cigar. 

I  listened.  To  my  untrained  ear  it  seemed 
chaotic  in  the  extreme.  If,  I  thought,  music  is 
the  rhythmic,  melodic,  and  harmonic  expression 
of  inner  thought,  what  in  Heaven's  name 
had  Schubert  done  to  require  such  expression? 
Knowing  some  of  his  songs  and  something  of  his 
life  story,  I  naturally  looked  for  some  theme  of 
tender  sweetness. 

In  one  passage  for  the  violin  I  felt  that  it  was 
coming,  but  both  pianos  swooped  down  upon  the 
violin  and  buried  it  under  miles  of  furious  sound. 

I  glanced  at  the  doctor.  He  was  sitting  in  an 
attitude  of  a  man  that  had  lost  all  hope  and  was 
expecting  the  worst. 

"Doctor,"  I  said,  "don't  you  think  the  sub 
cutaneous  injection  of  the  appoggiatura  rather 
more  strepitoso  than  stringendo?"  I  always  like 
V)  adapt  my  conversation  to  my  listener  and  I 
Mattered  myself  that  I  had  attained  a  musico- 


24        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

medico  flavor  that  would  flatter  him,  but  the  doc 
tor  favored  me  with  a  baleful  glare  and  mean 
ingly  reached  for  his  needle,  whereupon  I  sank 
back  upon  my  pillow  and  said  no  more  for  several 
minutes,  until  some  utterly  chaotic  and  frenzied 
harmony  moved  me  to  remark  that  the  nouveau 
riche  of  the  ensemble  interfered  with  the  perfect 
adagio  of  the  demi-tasse. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  doctor,  and  he 
forced  me  to  swallow  a  large  brown  pill  that 
tasted  like  a  fishhouse  at  the  beach  and  from  the 
effects  of  which  I  fell  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 

It  was  dark  when  I  awoke.  I  must  have  slept 
for  hours.  The  symphony  was  still  going  strong. 
I  know  now  why  he  never  finished  it.  He  did  not 
live  long  enough.  Nor  would  have  Methuselah. 
It  was  the  nearest  approach  to  perpetual  motion 
I  had  ever  known.  I  looked  for  the  doctor.  He 
still  sat  by  the  window.  He  had  aged  visibly. 
Suddenly  the  music  ceased.  It  had  not  been  fin 
ished,  but  merely  postponed.  The  players  had 
become  exhausted.  The  applause  was  generous, 
but  to  my  mind  was  not  in  the  same  class  with 
the  fervent  "Thank  God!"  of  the  doctor. 

The  members  trooped  off  chattering  their 
thanks  for  "so  delightful  an  interpretation,"  and 
I  wondered.  Wondered  how  the  man  that  wrote 
the  "Rosamunde  Overture,"  "The  Serenade," 
and  the  "Elegie  in  G"  could  have  written  such 


Piu  Mosso  25 

an  outrageously  unmelodic,  dissonant,  chaotic 
mess  as  the  "Unfinished  Symphony,"  and  the 
more  I  wondered  the  more  suspicion  grew. 
Could  it  have  been  — ?  But  no,  a  thousand  times 
no.  The  members  were  all  talented  musicians, 
and  well  read  in  musical  literature. 

I  breathed  my  suspicions  to  the  doctor.  His 
sombre,  tortured  face  lighted  up.  "Hell!"  he 
said;  "that  may  be  the  reason." 

Obeying  my  directions  he  slipped  quietly 
down  to  the  music-room  and  brought  back  the 
two  pieces  of  music  from  the  two  piano  racks  just 
as  the  players  had  left  them. 

They  were  both  of  the  Leipzig  edition  of 
Peters.  Here  it  was: 

Fiir  Pianoforte  fur  Acht  Handen. 
Bearbeitet  von  F.  N.  Kirchner. 

And,  shades  of  the  old  god  Pan !  The  arrangement 
on  one  piano  was  of  Schubert's  "Unfinished 
Symphony,"  and  on  the  other  was  "The  Awak 
ening  of  the  Lion,"  by  Chevalier  DeKonski. 

"God!"  said  the  doctor,  slapping  his  knee. 
"The  D'Indy  Club!"  Then  he  quietly  slipped 
down  the  stairs  again  and  restored  the  music  to 
its  proper  place  on  the  piano. 

Thursday,  March  28,  191-.  I  have  felt  better  to 
day  than  for  a  week.  I  am  afraid  in  the  past  I 
have  not  been  considerate  of  my  horses.  It  al- 


26        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

ways  seemed  to  me  unreasonable  and  inexplica 
ble  that  a  driving  horse  should  frequently  go  so 
aggravatingly  lame  when  one  was  taking  his  best 
girl  for  an  afternoon's  drive  in  the  merry  and 
much-lamented  days  when  a  motor-car  was  a 
thing  unknown,  and  its  ridiculously  inadequate 
predecessor,  the  horseless  carriage,  a  thing  uni 
versally  ridiculed  and  scorned. 

And  I  am  very  sorry  to  say  that  the  ordinary 
treatment  accorded  a  bog  or  bone  spavin-in 
fested  nag  was  a  few  stimulating  cuts  with  an 
ivory-handled  horsewhip  and  a  loud  and  threat 
ening  "G'dap!" 

Had  I  known  then  as  I  know  now  just  how  a 
spavin  felt,  I  am  sure  I  should  have  been  more 
considerate. 

Eheu!  me  miser abile;  peccavi!  peccavi! 

"The  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly." 

I  am  really  very  sorry  about  it,  but  I  will  say 
this,  not  in  extenuation,  but  to  show  that  I  am 
not  now,  and  never  was,  wholly  bad :  I  never  cut 
a  horse  with  a  whip,  or  jerked  his  bridle,  but  that 
after  the  first  flash  of  anger  was  past,  I  gave  him 
a  better  feed  than  usual,  an  easier  drive,  or  a 
thicker  bed  of  straw. 

I  may  ride  to  the  office  in  an  ancient  curricle 
known  locally  as  a  hack  to-morrow.  My  son's 
theory  of  driving  his  runabout  on  our  village 
roads  is  that  the  more  the  old  man  is  in  the  air 


An  Exeter  Hack  27 

during  the  trip  the  less  wear  there  is  on  the  cush 
ions,  and  I  have  known  smoother  roads  than 
ours,  and  so  to  guard  against  a  possibly  fatal  re 
lapse  I  will  try  the  curricle.  It  will  take  infinitely 
longer,  but  I  shall  feel  safer,  less  hurried,  more  at 
ease,  less  addicted  to  youthful  athletics  that  are 
unseemly,  undignified,  and  positively  dangerous 
at  my  age,  such  as  high  hurdling,  ground  and 
lofty  tumbling,  cartwheels  and  flippers. 

I  shall  arrive  safely.  The  only  approach  to  a 
runaway  ever  attained  by  an  Exeter  hack  horse 
has  been  its  occasional  inability  to  hold  back 
when  going  downhill,  and  from  my  house  to  my 
office  is  but  a  gentle  slope. 

I  expect  some  day  to  be  obliged,  in  my  magis 
terial  capacity,  to  fine  my  son  and  partner  heav 
ily  for  speeding,  but  I  do  not  want  to  have  a 
complaint  entered  for  a  trip  made  with  me  as  a 
passenger. 

Friday,  March  29,  191-.  Went  down  to  breakfast 
this  morning.  Much  easier  than  the  return  trip 
will  be.  Dick  went  down  in  his  car  at  8.30.  At 
nine  the  curricle  came  round.  I  climbed  in  stiffly, 
being  forcibly  reminded  of  Burdette's  rhyme: 

"Over  the  fence  a  gray -haired  man 
Cautiously  clim,  dome,  clem,  clum,  clam." 

About  halfway  to  the  office  the  horse  fell  down, 
broke  a  shaft,  and  refused  to  rise.  A  crowd  gath- 


28        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

ered,  and  while  some  sat  on  the  horse's  head  the 
others  assisted  the  driver  to  unharness  him  and 
persuade  him  to  arise,  in  which  operation  a  lash 
whip  and  much  profane  encouragement  were 
called  into  action.  After  he  was  resurrected  the 
driver  led  him  away,  leaving  me  seated  in  lonely 
and  somewhat  majestic  state  in  a  curricle  of 
the  Pliocene  period,  infested  with  peculiar  and 
awesome  smells.  There  was  a  strong  taint  of 
mouldy  blankets,  an  aroma  of  cold  T.  D.  pipe, 
the  subtle,  but  penetrating  fragrance  of  rub 
ber  boots,  a  perceptible  nuance  of  whiskey  sours, 
and  over  all  the  breath  of  decrepitude  and 
age. 

It  is  a  unique  experience,  but  open  to  any  one 
who  wishes  an  absolutely  novel  thrill,  at  the  very 
moderate  price  of  twenty-five  cents. 

I  had  been  fuming  for  a  period  of  fifteen 
minutes,  which  seemed  to  me  an  hour  and  a  half 
at  least,  when  a  fresh  hack  drove  up.  I  am  en 
tirely  wrong.  It  was  not  a  fresh  hack.  There  are 
no  fresh  hacks  in  Exeter.  They  are  all  very  stale. 
Sometimes  the  hackmen  are  a  bit  fresh,  but  never 
offensively  so. 

This  was  a  two-horse  hack,  evidently  a  relief 
expedition  sent  out  by  the  proprietor  for  the  dual 
purpose  of  retrieving  me  and  assembling  the 
twenty-five  cents  fare. 

I  thankfully  climbed  out  and  clome  in,  and  had 


Hook  and  Ladder  No.  2  29 

just  settled  myself  as  comfortably  as  the  circum 
stances  and  my  condition  permitted,  when  the 
fire  gong  boomed  an  alarum.  At  the  first  bellow 
the  whip  descended  on  the  back  of  the  hack 
horses  and  away  we  tore. 

Having  lived  in  Exeter  all  my  life,  I  knew  that 
these  horses  had  a  solemn  duty  to  perform  —  to 
haul  Hook  and  Ladder  Truck  No.  2  from  its  sta 
tion  on  lower  Court  Street,  which  was  rather  far 
ther  from  my  office  than  the  scene  of  my  ship 
wreck.  And  I  further  knew  that  my  friend  the 
hackman  would  perform  his  sworn  duty  as  a 
public  officer,  notwithstanding  any  expostulation 
and  even  if  it  took  a  leg,  which  in  this  instance 
meant  my  leg. 

Were  I  a  United  States  Senator  rushing  to 
make  a  quorum;  were  I  a  physician  speeding 
to  the  relief  of  a  man  with  a  severed  artery, 
or  a  child  with  membranous  croup;  were  I,  in 
fact  a  placid  corpse,  decorously  immured  in  a 
satin-lined  casket  and  followed  by  a  long  line  of 
stricken  relatives  and  friends,  one  and  all  won 
dering  how  much  life  insurance  I  held  and 
whether  or  not  my  dependents  would  be  enabled 
to  live  in  enervating  luxury  and  soul-destroying 
sloth  or  be  obliged  to  go  to  work  —  that  f  aithf  ul 
hackman  would  drive  like  Jehu  to  Hook  and 
Ladder  House  No.  2,  there  to  unhook  his  panting 
cattle  and  to  leave  me  to  curse  and  unavailingly 


30        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

protest,  or  to  fester  by  the  roadside,  according  to 
which  character  I  might  represent. 

And  so,  knowing  his  loyalty  to  duty,  I  merely 
sought  to  brace  myself  to  avoid,  as  far  as  pos 
sible,  the  jolts,  bumps,  and  shocks  of  the  swaying 
curricle.  I  was  doing  very  well,  indeed,  thank 
you,  when,  on  turning  into  Court  Street,  a  pro 
digious  bump  over  a  frost-heaved  section  of  the 
road  caused  the  entire  bottom  of  the  hack  to  fall 
out,  and  without  in  the  least  knowing  how  I  did 
it,  I  found  myself  with  my  head  and  body  up 
right  inside  the  body  of  the  hack,  my  hands 
frantically  but  vainly  clawing  for  some  purchase, 
while  my  rheumatic  feet  and  sciatical  legs  were 
drumming  a  vigorous  and  prestissimo  rataplan 
as  I  instinctively  legged  it  to  keep  pace  with  the 
bounding  hack. 

In  my  boyhood,  when  pursued  by  the  watchful 
minions  of  the  law  for  youthful  misdemeanors 
not  unconnected  with  melon  patches  and  sweet 
apples,  cherries  and  strawberries,  I  made  some 
fast  time,  but  I  do  not  think  I  ever  ran  more  flu 
ently  and  with  less  friction.  This  was  no  half 
hearted  performance.  My  burning  ambition  was 
to  keep  up  with  that  hack,  for  I  knew  that  unless 
I  did  the  sharp  edge  of  the  rear  spring  would  cut 
me  in  two  like  a  cheese.  Luckily  the  remaining 
distance  was  not  great,  and  we  all  came  under 
the  wire  going  strong,  I  really  think  I  completed 


A  Speed  Record  31 

the  last  hundred  yards  in  rather  less  than  nine 
seconds  flat.  I  shall  try  to  have  my  performance 
registered  as  a  speed  record.  Of  course  the  fact 
that  I  was  trotting  with  a  wind-shield  and  was 
paced  by  two  runners  may  deprive  me  of  the 
honor.  But  how  about  Mile-a-Minute  Murphy? 
And  he  had  a  specially  built  track,  while  I  ran 
on  the  frost-heaved  and  muddy  roads  of  a  New 
England  village. 

As  soon  as  the  hackman  arrived  at  Hook  and 
Ladder  House  No.  2  he  pulled  up  his  horses,  and 
before  I  had  crawled  out  from  beneath  the  ve 
hicle  (I  had  to  take  this  method  of  egress,  as  both 
doors  were  hermetically  sealed  and  could  n't 
have  been  opened  without  an  experienced  safe- 
breaker  with  a  jimmy  and  a  can  of  blasting  pow 
der),  he  had  hitched  his  horses  to  the  truck  and 
was  off  amid  intense  excitement,  while  I,  with 
hat  crowded  to  my  shoulders  and  with  shoes  and 
trousers  splashed  with  mud  to  my  ears,  walked 
to  my  office  simmering  with  indignation. 

My  first  thought  was  to  sue  the  proprietor  for 
a  million  dollars,  but  as  my  sciatica  had  miracu 
lously  departed,  I  began  to  feel  as  if  I  ought  to 
reward  the  hackman  for  his  loyalty  and  devotion 
to  public  duty  by  a  present  of  a  generous  sum. 
Nothing  but  the  lack  of  money  and  the  knowl 
edge  that  I  had  lost  a  week's  time  from  the  office 
prevented  me. 


32        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Saturday,  March  30,  191-.  Robins  have  come. 
This  morning  there  were  a  half-dozen  on  the 
lawn.  As  I  went  to  the  office  I  heard  a  purple 
finch.  I  expect  my  pigs  to-day.  Feel  as  well  as 
ever  and  got  in  an  hour's  work  on  the  outdoor  pig 
pen.  I  am  handicapped  by  frost  in  the  ground.  I 
can  dig  only  about  so  far  and  then  have  to  wait 
for  the  frost  to  melt.  The  weather  is  wonderful 
for  March.  She  surely  is  going  out  like  a  lamb. 

Sunday,  March  31,  191-.  Sunday  again.  A  good 
day  for  working  in  the  yard  and  barn.  I  laid  out 
the  garden  to-day  on  paper.  I  have  decided  to 
have  a  sort  of  omnibus  garden.  At  least  three 
plantings  of  corn  in  succession,  so  that  I  may 
have  corn  on  the  cob  from  August  20th  to 
November. 

Also  early  and  late  cabbages,  celery,  chard, 
Brussels  sprouts,  potatoes,  turnips,  carrots,  en 
dive,  beans,  both  pole  and  bush,  peas  early,  late, 
and  sweet,  and  several  other  kinds  of  vegetables, 
both  surface  and  subterranean. 

When  I  got  through  I  had  a  map  that  closely 
resembled  the  Balkan  States  in  revolution. 

I  have  understood  that  the  summer  growth 
of  pigs  is  greatly  stimulated  by  a  balanced  ra 
tion  of  vegetables.  Time  will  tell.  There  will  be 
no  need  of  a  balanced  ration  until  I  get  those 
pigs. 


April  Fool  33 

Monday,  April  1,  191-.  I  got  word  to-day  that 
my  pigs  were  at  the  railroad  station.  I  at  once 
sent  an  expressman  for  them.  Gave  up  an  ap 
pointment  with  a  client  to  meet  and  escort  them 
to  their  indoor  pen,  which  I  had  littered  with 
fresh  straw.  Thought  some  of  getting  up  an 
address  of  welcome. 

N.B.  The  word  "littered"  is  singularly  ap 
propriate  for  pigs.  Was  it  a  mere  coincidence  or 
is  it  a  word  of  prophecy?  I  wonder. 

I  hung  round  all  the  forenoon.  I  think  if  I  went 
to  the  roadway  and  looked  up  and  down  the 
road  once,  I  did  fifty  times.  It  is  all  well  enough 
to  be  an  amateur  farmer,  but  it  is  not  a  paying 
proposition  to  neglect  business  appointments. 

At  11.45  received  word  by  telephone  from  the 
expressman  to  the  effect  that  there  were  no  pigs 
at  the  station  and  asking  me  if  I  knew  what  day 
of  the  month  it  was.  _ 

Tuesday,  April  2,  191-.  No  pigs  to-day.  Raked 
the  lawn  for  an  hour.  It  is  astonishing  how  many 
valuable  articles  are  lost  during  the  fall  and  win 
ter  and  how  valueless  they  are  when  found  the 
next  spring.  But  it  is  interesting  as  a  sporting 
proposition  to  find  them. 

I  found  two  pairs  of  scissors  that  my  wife  had 
fairly  made  life  a  burden  over;  my  penknife  that 
I  had  accused  all  the  other  members  of  my  family 


34        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

with  losing;  a  pair  of  tortoise-shell  (imitation,  I 
am  afraid)  frames  surrounded  by  small  frag 
ments  of  glass,  which  my  wife  had  darkly  inti 
mated  that  some  one  knew  about  if  he  could 
be  made  to  tell;  and  several  other  articles.  The 
knife  and  scissors  were  rusted  and  ruined.  The 
tortoise-shell  frame  (imitation,  I  am  sure)  I  pur 
pose  to  place  where  my  wife  will  find  them  and 
then  think  she  was  the  one  to  blame.  Later  on 
I  will  casually  mention  the  fact.  It  will  have 
to  be  extremely  casual,  as  her  suspicions  are 
easily  aroused. 
No  pigs  to-day. 

Wednesday \  April  3,  191-.  The  fine  weather  con 
tinues  and  new  birds  are  coming  daily.  The  roads 
to  the  country  are  fearful.  Yet  the  man  of  whom 
I  bought  the  pigs  lives  next  door  to  the  railroad 
station. 

Thursday,  April  4,  191-.  Got  letter  to-day  from 
man  with  whom  I  had  made  appointment  say 
ing  that  he  had  engaged  Scammon  and  Gard 
ner  to  attend  to  his  business  hereafter,  and  that 
if  I  would  be  good  enough  to  turn  his  papers  over 
to  them  he  would  be  very  much  obliged,  etc. 
That  is  unfortunate.  He  was  a  good  client.  I 
would  give  something  to  know  who  played 
that  April  fool  trick  on  me.  Serves  me  right, 


Arrival  of  the  Pigs  35 

I  guess;  at  least  Dick  says  so  and  I  guess  he 
knows. 


Friday,  April  5,  191-.  Weather  turned  to  sleet 
and  rain.  Hope  pigs  will  not  come  until  storm 
is  over. 

Saturday,  April  6,  191-.  The  rain  held  up  this 
morning,  but  the  wind  blew  strongly.  Just  as  I 
had  dressed  to  go  to  the  office  the  expressman 
drove  in  with  my  pigs.  I  told  my  son  to  leave  me, 
and  further  said  that  I  would  be  down  in  a  short 
time  and  I  went  out  to  take  out  the  box. 

The  pigs  are  beauties.  Clean  and  white  and  a 
bit  rangy.  They  were  a  bit  wild,  as  was  shown 
by  their  crowding  away  from  me  to  the  farther 
side  of  the  box. 

The  expressman  drove  to  the  wide  space  in 
front  of  the  barn  intending  to  turn  his  horse 
and  to  back  the  team  so  that  we  could  with  little 
difficulty  put  box  and  pigs  into  the  inner  pen. 
This  was  a  clever  idea,  but  in  turning  he  cramped 
the  wheel  a  bit  too  much  and  the  wagon  tipped  at 
such  an  angle  before  I  could  steady  the  box  that 
it  fell  out  with  a  crackling  crash,  broke  open  and 
discharged  its  cargo  of  pigs  in  a  two-acre  yard 
open  to  the  general  public  on  the  north,  and  to 
the  abutters  on  the  east  and  west. 

I  suppose  the  general  trend  of  thought  in  the 


36        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

mind  of  every  person  has  a  powerful  effect  in  his 
mental  development  and  the  resulting  physical 
phenomena. 

Now  I  had  for  years  dreamed  both  waking  and 
sleeping  dreams  of  heroic  actions  wherein  I  had 
fought  and  conquered  bullies,  caught  and  stopped 
runaway  horses,  thrown  myself  before  railroad 
trains  and  snatched  beautiful  maidens  from  awful 
deaths,  dashed  into  burning  buildings  and  res 
cued  helpless  children  from  living  cremation, 
dove  into  white  water  fathoms  deep  and  rescued 
more  and  more  beautiful  maidens,  and  in  short 
lived  up  to  the  best  traditions  of  Nick  Carter, 
Old  Cap  Collier,  and  other  dime-novel  favorites. 

To  be  sure  I  had  never  in  my  life  had  actual 
opportunity  of  testing  the  result  of  such  a  trend 
of  thought  until  these  my  own  pedigreed  pigs 
were  so  unceremoniously  dumped  into  my  pres 
ence.  But  the  subsequent  events  showed  that 
years  of  intensive  training  had  borne  fruit,  for 
at  the  first  staccato  grunt  of  the  escaping  pigs 
I  had  thrown  myself  in  fullback  style,  regardless 
of  mud,  upon  them  and  by  great  good  luck  suc 
ceeded  in  catching  one  just  below  the  gambrel 
joint,  which  is  a  sort  of  natural  handle  to  the 
animal. 

Heavens!  I  never  imagined  so  small  a  pig 
could  squeal  so  loud.  For  a  moment  I  thought 
I  had  hold  of  a  full-sized,  sixty-horse  power  tug- 


A  Dive  37 

boat  whistle.  It  could  be,  I  am  sure,  and  was,  I 
have  little  doubt,  heard  in  several  of  the  sur 
rounding  towns.  Had  the  pig  let  out  a  squeal  of 
moderate  strength  of  purpose,  say  not  louder 
than  a  fire-alarm  gong  or  a  circus  calliope,  I 
might  have  been  startled  just  enough  to  let  him 
go,  but  as  it  was  I  was  sufficiently  shocked  and 
momentarily  terrified  to  hang  on  convulsively 
with  a  grip  that  nothing  could  break,  and  to  the 
great  admiration  of  the  expressman,  rose  with 
the  shrieking  atom  and  carried  him  to  the  barn 
and  dropped  him  safely  in  the  deeply  littered 
pen,  where  he  speedily  forgot  his  troubles  in  root 
ing  amid  the  straw. 

Then  we  turned  our  attention  to  the  fugitive. 
The  expressman,  who  was  fat  and  jolly,  gave 
as  his  opinion  that  we  had  better  ring  in  a  fire 
alarm  and  call  out  the  department,  but  I  told 
him  not  to  worry,  but  just  to  watch  me.  He 
asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  a  little  pig  run.  I  said 
no.  He  then  said  I  was  in  for  a  surprise.  I  asked 
him  in  turn  if  he  had  ever  seen  me  run.  He  said 
no.  I  told  him  that  both  he  and  the  pig  were  in 
for  a  surprise.  He  was  sufficiently  frank  to  say 
that  if  I  could  run  as  well  as  I  could  dive,  I  was 
all  right.  I  said  nothing,  but  smiled  meaningly  as 
I  thought  of  the  new  century  record  that  would 
soon  be  chalked  up  under  my  immortal  name. 

We  found  the  fugitive  pig  in  the  middle  of  the 


38        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

garden,  and  as  we  approached  he  trotted  toward 
a  corner  in  the  fence.  Holding  our  arms  out 
spread  we  gradually  got  him  in  a  corner,  when 
he  became  uneasy  and  acted  as  if  he  meant  to 
dodge  out  between  us.  Of  course,  as  we  were  at 
the  base  of  the  triangle  and  the  pig  at  the  apex, 
we  had  to  cover  much  more  ground  than  he,  and 
we  did  it  with  the  greatest  agility  and  grace. 

Every  time  the  pig  would  start  a  rush  we  would 
yell  like  hysenas  and  dance  to  and  fro  with  wide 
spread  arms  and  great  action.  At  first  I  con 
tented  myself  with  old-fashioned  dances  such 
as  the  Polka  Mazurka,  the  Varsovienne,  the  Hop 
Waltz  a  trois  pas,  the  Glide  Waltz  a  deux  pas,  the 
Sword  Dance,  and  the  Highland  Fling,  while  the 
expressman,  being  from  the  nature  of  his  employ 
ment  something  of  an  Indian,  affected  tribal 
dances  such  as  the  Fire  Dance,  the  Snake  Dance, 
the  Scalp  Dance,  the  Corn  Dance,  and  let  out 
especially  piercing  war-whoops. 

Finally  we  penned  the  little  villain  in  the  cor 
ner,  and  we  slowly  advanced  breathing  endear 
ments  and  ready  to  grab  him.  Suddenly  he  darted 
for  our  legs  and  we  both  grabbed  for  him.  A 
blinding  flash  and  a  sparkling  coruscation  of 
meteors  blazed  before  my  eyes,  followed  by  a 
loud,  humming  sound,  and  I  found  myself,  when 
the  fireworks  subsided,  sitting  in  a  pool  of  mud, 
holding  on  to  my  head  with  both  hands,  and 


The  Chase  39 

blinking  at  a  bewildered  expressman  in  a  similar 
position. 

"What  in  hell  are  you  trying  to  do?"  he  de 
manded  sulkily. 

Having  no  suitable  answer  ready,  and  realiz 
ing  the  entire  justice  of  his  inquiry,  I  asked  him 
what  in  hell  he  thought  he  was  trying  to  do, 
whereupon  he  grinned  and  said,  "  How  about  that 
pig?"  I  had  totally  forgotten  the  very  existence 
of  the  pig,  but  scrambled  up  rather  gingerly,  for 
my  head  still  hummed  like  a  top.  My  expressman, 
having  a  harder  head  than  mine  —  at  least  I  do 
not  see  how  anything  could  be  harder  than  his, 
and  I  distinctly  remember  feeling  my  head  cave 
in  when  his  ox-like  frontlet  struck  it  —  arose 
slowly,  and  we  scouted  round  until  we  found  the 
pig  in  the  dense  bed  of  rosebushes  garnished  with 
steel-like  thorns. 

As  no  person  could  penetrate  this  thicket  and 
emerge  with  a  shred  of  respectability  or  any 
thing  else,  we  forbore  to  enter,  and  tried  to  drive 
him  out  with  stones,  but  did  not  succeed.  Then 
we  got  a  couple  of  bean  poles,  and  after  poking 
at  him  a  long  time  without  success  the  express 
man  finally  landed  him  a  jolt  in  the  short  ribs. 

The  pig  let  out  a  sharp  squeal  and  dashed  for 
the  open  road  at  a  speed  I  never  saw  equalled 
by  an  animal  so  small.  Although  I  was  fifty  feet 
nearer  the  street  than  he,  I  had  the  greatest  diffi- 


40        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

culty  in  heading  him  off,  and  only  succeeded 
when  I  tripped  and  fell  at  full  length  in  the 
muddy  driveway  while  the  pig  dashed  back  into 
the  corner  from  which  he  had  escaped. 

I  was  shaken  to  my  foundations  by  the  fall  and 
my  clothes  were  a  sight,  but  I  was  not  nearly 
as  helpless  as  the  expressman,  who  took  the 
opportunity  to  laugh  in  a  most  unfeeling  manner 
over  my  misfortune,  to  such  an  extent  that  I 
really  thought  he  would  burst  a  blood  vessel,  and 
sincerely  hoped  he  would. 

When  he  had  recovered  we  again  tried  to  pen 
the  infernal  pig  in  the  corner. 

This  time  we  decided  that  we  would  not  dance 
round  or  solo  dances,  but  would  see  what  we 
could  do  with  square,  and  so,  to  keep  that  small 
but  openly  defiant  animal  from  breaking  through 
our  cordon,  we  danced  most  of  the  measures  of 
Lady  Washington's  Reel,  the  Tempest,  Lancers, 
Sicilian  Circle,  Plain  Quadrille,  and  Portland 
Fancy,  and  we  Ladies  Chained  and  chassezed 
and  forward  and  backed  and  right-hand-to-part 
ner-grand-right  and-lef ted  and  all-hands-rounded 
—  all  to  no  effect,  for  when  that  pig  decided  it 
was  time  to  get  out  of  his  cul-de-sac  he  shot  out 
like  a  flash  of  lightning,  leaving  us  staring  fool 
ishly  at  him  as  he  disappeared  behind  the  barn.  ^ 

This  time  we  sat  down  in  the  sun  and  smoked 
a  cigarette  and  talked  the  matter  over  without 


Noosed  41 

heat.  We  were  both  about  played  out  from  our 
unusual  conviviality.  I  had  not  danced  for  thirty 
years  and  over  and  the  expressman  had  not 
twirled  a  foot  for  at  least  ten.  At  last  we  decided 
that  if  we  expected  to  catch  that  pig  within  a 
week  we  should  have  to  finesse  a  bit. 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  me  with  force.  Why 
not  try  a  slip-noose?  In  my  boyhood  a  slip-noose 
had  been  a  doughty  weapon.  Under  its  blighting 
and  sinister  spell,  when  at  night,  with  noose- 
end  carefully  spread  on  the  sidewalk  in  some 
quarter  of  the  town  where  the  feeble  and  flick 
ering  rays  of  the  old-fashioned  gas-lamps  did 
not  reach,  and  with  the  other  end  firmly  tied  to 
a  tree,  a  fence-post,  or  a  picket,  business  man, 
peasantry,  aristocrat  and  proletarian,  preacher 
and  man-about-town,  "doctor  and  saint"  went 
down  in  turn;  and  "I  heard  great  argument," 
mostly  of  a  most  blasphemous  and  profane  na 
ture,  as  the  victim  removed  the  noose  from  his 
leg  and  cast  about  in  all  directions,  like  the  hunt 
ing  hound,  to  discover,  overtake,  and  destroy 
the  "dashity  dash  blankity  blank  who  done  it." 

In  a  moment  I  procured  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a 
long,  strong  cord.  Making  a  slip-noose  I  placed 
it  flat  on  the  ground  by  a  corner  of  the  barn 
behind  which  the  pig  was  rooting  with  the  ut 
most  unconcern.  Placing  a  few  pieces  of  bread 
in  and  around  the  noose,  I  withdrew  to  a  distance 


42        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

and  waited  with  the  end  of  the  cord  wound  round 
my  wrist. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  appeared  round  the  corner 
of  the  barn,  perceived  the  bait,  and  trotted 
eagerly  up  to  it.  The  instant  a  foot  entered  the 
noose-ring  I  pulled,  and  he  was  caught,  and 
amid  a  most  terrific  squealing  I  hauled  him  in 
hand  over  hand,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  com 
fortably  lunching  with  his  sister  pig  on  the  bread 
I  threw  into  the  pen.  Then  having  given  the 
expressman  all  the  money  I  had,  on  receiving 
which  he  looked  somewhat^disappointed,  I  went 
into  the  house  to  change  my  clothes.  I  called  my 
wife,  but  received  no  reply.  I  listened,  and,  hear 
ing  unintelligible  sounds  from  the  library,  I 
entered  and  found  my  wife  in  a  state  of  collapse 
on  the  lounge.  It  was  not  serious,  but  as  I  found 
I  could  get  nothing  but  inane  giggles,  I  rather 
dignifiedly  went  to  my  room.  It  simply  shows  that 
there  are  some  people  in  the  world  who  would 
laugh  if  you  fell  downstairs  and  killed  yourself. 

I  was  an  hour  late  or  more  at  the  office. 

Sunday,  April  7,  191-.  The  pigs  are  all  right  to 
day.  I  think  the  racing  pig  will  tame  in  time.  When 
I  poured  their  milk  into  the  pan  they  got  as  far 
from  me  as  possible,  but  as  soon  as  I  got  out  of 
the  pen  they  climbed  into  that  pan,  snout,  eyes, 
and  all  eight  feet.  They  are  real  pigs.  They  ate 


Purple  Crackles  43 

three  square  meals  to-day.  I  have  ordered  two 
more  quarts  of  milk  a  day.  At  twelve  cents  a 
quart.  I  remember  when  local  milkmen  raised 
the  price  from  four  to  five  cents  and  we  prophe 
sied  a  financial  panic.  Well,  those  pigs  are  worth 
some  sacrifice. 

Monday,  April  8,  191-.  Had  a  dozen  or  more 
two-horse  loads  of  manure  dumped  on  my  cro 
quet  ground,  tennis  court,  and  last  year's  garden. 
I  intend  to  spread  it  myself.  Bought  a  manure 
fork  for  $1.25.  The  last  one  I  bought  several  years 
ago  cost  sixty  cents.  My  wife  does  not  appear 
to  appreciate  the  necessity  of  fertilizers  to  stimu 
late  production,  and  goes  about  the  house  closing 
doors  and  windows,  with  her  nose  at  an  angle  of 
forty-five  degrees. 

Tuesday,  April  9,  191-.  Worked  an  hour  before 
breakfast  spreading  manure.  The  sun  was  shin 
ing,  it  was  warm,  and  an  immense  flock  of  purple 
grackles  filled  the  big  oak  tree  at  the  foot  of  the 
garden.  They  did  not  alight  in  my  garden  until 
I  had  finished  work  and  had  gone  to  my  bath, 
where  from  the  window  I  saw  the  ground  was 
literally  black  with  them. 

What  a  cheery,  hustling,  chatty,  friendly,  talk 
ative  crowd  they  are.  Occasionally  they  have 
sharp  little  disputes  and  fly  into  the  air  a  few 


44       The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

feet,  pecking  and  clawing,  but  like  the  duelling 
of  cock  robin  it  is  mostly  fencing  with  buttoned 
foils. 

I  had  a  farmer's  appetite  for  my  breakfast, 
although  we  had  no  cream  in  our  coffee.  I  had 
given  the  milk  to  the  pigs. 

I  have  an  idea  that  my  wife  is  not  wholly  in 
sympathy  with  my  agricultural  aims.  She  as 
much  as  said  that  golf  would  give  me  as  much 
exercise  as  farming  and  stock-raising.  From  my 
experience  at  the  reception  given  my  pigs  yes 
terday,  I  think  I  am  in  a  position  to  demonstrate 
the  fallacy  of  her  argument.  I  have  played  golf 
and  have  a  deep  admiration  and  a  sincere  re 
spect  for  it  as  a  game,  but  agriculture,  even  as  a 
fad,  is  an  occupation,  most  interesting  and  de 
lightful,  and  is  a  game  that  occasionally  demands 
the  instant  exercise  of  all  one's  physical,  mental, 
and  moral  powers  to  the  nth  degree.  Golf,  from 
my  experience,  is  a  leisurely  stroll  through  a 
sheep-infested  field,  accompanied  by  a  few  choice 
friends  and  a  freckled-face  boy,  and  interrupted 
at  times  by  sudden  clouds  of  dust  and  bursts  of 
hideous  profanity. 

Profanity  is  only  incidental  to  agriculture,  but 
is  a  recognized  ingredient  of  the  game  of  golf. 

Wednesday,  April  10,  191-.  A  gray  day  with  a 
sharp  wind.  Last  year's  leaves  are  flying.  Saw 


The  Cost  of  Pork  45 

no  blackbirds  or  robins  to-day.  Even  the  gray 
squirrels  that  for  the  past  week  or  more  have 
been  digging  up  nuts  buried  last  year,  have 
disappeared. 

Kipling  has  made  Mowgli  say,  "Last  year's 
nuts  are  this  year's  black  earth."  This  may  be  so 
in  India,  but  not  in  New  England  in  early  spring. 
I  have  dug  up  many  in  past  years  while  spading 
my  garden  and  they  were  very  palatable. 

There  is  a  chill  in  the  wind  that  made  my 
hour  of  manure-spreading  really  necessary  to 
keep  me  warm. 

The  pigs  keep  nearly  buried  in  the  straw  of  their 
pen  and  only  come  out  long  enough  to  eat  their 
warm  mush  and  milk. 

By  the  way,  if  they  drink  so  much  milk  now, 
what  in  the  world  will  they  do  when  they  are 
hogs?  It  looks  to  me  as  if  my  pork  will  cost  me 
about  forty  cents  a  pound.  Well,  I  shall  know 
what  it  was  fed  on.  It  gives  me  a  curiously 
comfortable  feeling  on  a  cold  or  raw  day  to  see 
small  pigs  feed  until  their  bodies  are  as  tense 
as  a  full-blown  football,  and  then  burrow  al 
most  out  of  sight  in  clean  straw.  It  is  really 
worth  paying  forty  cents  a  pound  for  pork  of 
this  sort. 

Thursday,  April  11,  191-.  Snow  came  last  night 
and  to-day  is  bleak  and  wintry.  The  wind  still 


46        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

blows  and  there  are  no  birds  in  sight.  I  wonder 
when  they  feed? 

Did  my  hour  of  manure-spreading  this  morn 
ing.  I  was  a  bit  stiff  in  my  arms  at  first,  but  it  is 
wearing  off  slowly.  I  would  like  to  demonstrate 
to  my  own  satisfaction  that  as  far  as  the  average 
man  is  concerned  Dr.  Osier  is  either  a  damn  fool 
or  a  damn  liar. 

Pigs  are  all  right.  I  really  think  they  are  grow 
ing. 

Friday,  April  12,  191-.  To-day  is  a  spring  day. 
Did  my  stunt  at  spreading.  Also  tried  spading. 
The  spade  struck  frost  at  about  six  inches,  and 
brought  up  no  earthworms.  Saw  a  flock  of  black 
birds,  also  robins  and  bluebirds,  and  heard  a 
purple  finch  and  a  golden-winged  woodpecker 
giving  its  mating  call. 

I  wonder  if  farmers,  as  a  rule,  notice  these  calls. 
I  have  dealt  with  farmers  for  thirty-five  years, 
but  have  seldom  heard  one  speak  of  birds  and 
spring  flowers.  Perhaps  they  feel  that  nature  is 
out  of  place  in  a  law  office. 

It  may  be  that  spreading  manure,  and  fencing 
pasture,  and  getting  out  cordwood,  and  shearing 
sheep,  and  loading  hay  and  bullwhacking  spoil 
a  farmer's  appreciation  of  nature  and  kill  his 
interest  in  birds  and  squirrels  and  fish,  and  the 
different  shades  of  green  in  a  spring  landscape 


A  Wood  Thrush  47 

and  of  crimson  in  a  spring  sunset,  and  in  the  song 
of  a  white-throated  sparrow  or  a  wood  thrush. 

I  hope  not,  for  if  I  thought  that  the  little  work 
I  propose  doing  in  emulation  of  our  merry  farmer, 
who  "jocund  fares  him  afield,"  will  have  the 
effect  of  causing  me  to  stare  unmoved  at  a  sun 
set,  to  forget  to  watch  and  delight  in  the  bound 
ing  flight  of  the  goldfinch,  to  listen  unenthralled 
to  the  eerie  song  of  the  wood  thrush  from  a  dark 
green  wood  in  the  early  twilight,  I  certainly 
would  renounce  farm  life  forever.  I  would  re 
nounce  the  delights  of  pig-raising,  the  delicious 
intoxication  of  hoeing  beans,  potatoes,  and  cab 
bage,  the  calisthenics  of  spading  gardens  and 
spreading  manure,  and  go  back  to  my  law  office 
and  writing  and  live  the  quiet  life  of  a  man  who 
does  not  like  to  work,  but  is  obliged  to. 

The  pigs  are  very  well,  thank  you. 

Saturday,  April  13,  191-.  Warm  and  sunny. 
Finished  spreading  manure  this  morning.  My 
wife  says  she  thinks  it  about  time,  thereby  show 
ing  lack  of  sympathy  with  my  ambitions.  Must 
really  make  some  arrangement  about  our  milk 
supply.  Sour  milk  appears  to  be  a  household  ne 
cessity  when  it  comes  to  flapjacks  and  other  con 
fections.  And  my  wife  very  pertinently  remarks 
that  those  pigs  get  all  the  milk  before  it  has  time 
to  sour.  I  find  myself  facing  a  domestic  crisis  and 


48        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

probable  famine  in  the  way  of  flapjacks,  corn,  rye, 
and  buckwheat  cakes  and  muffins.  There  must 
be  some  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  I  cannot  sacri 
fice  my  wife  and  daughter,  and  at  the  same  time 
my  heart  goes  out  to  my  pigs. 

Sunday,  April  14,  191-.  I  would  like  to  know 
where  I  left  that  plan  of  the  garden  I  made  some 
time  ago.  I  do  not  believe  I  could  make  another 
just  like  it  if  I  were  to  try  all  the  season.  I  really 
wish  people  would  let  my  things  alone.  Did  no 
work  of  any  amount  to-day,  but  read  agricul 
tural  and  stock  magazines  most  of  the  day.  I 
wonder  if  I  have  made  a  mistake  in  not  choos 
ing  Ayrshire  pigs  instead  of  Herefords?  I  don't 
think  so,  but  even  if  the  result  may  not  be  as 
encouraging  as  I  hoped,  I  would  not  exchange 
my  pigs  for  a  pair  of  any  other  creed  or  belief 
however  recommended. 

Monday,  April  15,  191-.  This  morning  I  tried 
the  spade  again  and  brought  up  earthworms. 
That  shows  that  the  frost  has  gone,  at  least  from 
the  sunniest  parts  of  my  garden.  I  turned  over 
a  good-sized  patch  this  morning.  I  am  intending 
to  plant  peas  as  my  first  crop.  I  am  told  that  the 
only  way  is  to  buy  some  seed  peas  in  bulk,  because 
the  paper  packages  contain  so  few.  I  heard  of  a 
man  who  bought  a  box  of  pills  and  a  package  of 


Giant  or  Dwarf  49 

seed  peas,  and  after  disposing  of  both  packages 
was  utterly  at  a  loss  to  recollect  whether  or  not 
he  had  planted  the  pills  and  taken  the  peas.  By 
buying  peas  in  bulk  I  will  at  least  be  spared  this 
worry. 

Tuesday,  April  16,  191-.  The  burning  question 
appears  to  be  whether  I  shall  plant  giant  or  dwarf 
peas.  The  giants  require  bushing,  while  the  dwarfs 
do  not.  The  bushing  requires  time  and  labor, 
which  is  a  black  eye  for  the  giants;  but  the  dwarfs 
require  one  to  bend  over  or  to  squat  down  to 
pick  the  peas,  which  is  a  black  eye  for  the  dwarfs. 
I  feel  like  the  man  of  middle  age  and  not  very 
active  habit  who  strolls  through  a  wood  or  pas 
ture  and  comes  to  a  fence  that  is  a  bit  too 
high  to  climb  over  easily  and  a  bit  too  low  to 
crawl  under  without  back-breaking  effort,  and 
finds  it  so  difficult  to  make  up  his  mind  which  to 
do  that  he  goes  no  farther. 

However,  7  shall  go  on.  It  will  be  one  or  the 
other  with  me  —  but  I  cannot  say  for  the  mo 
ment  whether  it  will  be  giant  or  dwarf. 

Wednesday,  April  17,  191-.  It  has  been  a  day  of 
showers  and  sunshine.  Showers  when  I  went  down 
to  my  office  without  an  umbrella  and  sunshine 
when  I  bought  one  at  an  exorbitant  price  to 
shelter  me  on  the  way  home. 


50        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

I  wonder  which  it  will  be,  giant  or  dwarf? 
Honors  are  even  so  far.  I  believe  there  was  once 
an  ass  that  starved  to  death  between  two  bun 
dles  of  hay.  I  believe  that  history  repeats  itself. 
I  wonder  if  I  am  to  furnish  proof  of  the  same. 

Thursday,  April  18,  191-.  While  making  up  my 
mind  about  which  kind  of  peas  to  plant,  I  spaded 
up  another  considerable  patch  of  garden.  I  be 
lieve  the  second  planting  will  be  beets.  It  may 
possibly  be  the  first.  I  remember  a  song  which, 
years  ago,  concert  singers  of  mediocre  taste  and 
talent  used  to  render  and  at  times  rend: 

"  She  stood  between  love  and  duty." 

Happily  I  have  forgotten  the  melody,  if  indeed 
it  had  one.  Unfortunately  I  have  also  forgotten 
the  denouement.  If  I  knew  whether  love  or  duty 
landed  the  bewildered  lady,  perhaps  I  might  be 
guided  in  my  decision  as  to  what  family  of  peas 
to  plant,  Brobdingnag  or  Lilliput. 

Friday,  April  19,  191-.  Have  been  so  busy  at  the 
office  to-day  that  I  did  no  work  on  farm  or  gar 
den.  There  is  always  the  kitchen  fire  and  the 
furnace,  and  ashes  to  sift  and  wood  to  bring  in 
and  coal  to  shovel,  until,  but  for  the  fact  that 
I  am  slightly  knock-kneed,  I  should  be  bow- 
legged  like  a  pair  of  calipers  or  the  forelegs  of  a 
well-bred  bulldog. 


A  Sour-Milk  Famine  51 

Saturday,  April  20,  191-.  No  flapjacks  or  muffins 
for  breakfast.  Extreme  drouth  in  the  sour-milk 
department.  Situation  becoming  acute.  Toast  is 
all  right  in  its  place,  but  like  the  grasshopper  it 
may  become  a  burden.  Of  course  those  infernal 
pigs  have  got  to  be  fed,  and  at  their  age  milk 
appears  to  be  the  basis  of  their  bill  of  fare. 

But  at  the  present  price  of  milk,  twelve  cents, 
my  pork  will  cost  me  something  appalling  in 
money,  and  unless  something  is  done  pretty  soon 
in  the  way  of  pouring  oil  on  troubled  waters,  a 
domestic  upheaval  will  occur,  and  domestic  up 
heavals  are  fearsome  things  as  every  lawyer  and 
police  magistrate  knows  only  too  well.  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  send  out  an  S.O.S.  call  to  some  agri 
cultural  friend.  Luckily  I  have  a  good  many 
friends  among  the  bucolic  fraternity,  all  or  most 
of  whom  consider  me  a  joke. 

No  flapjacks  or  muffins  to-day.  Starvation 
has  set  its  teeth  in  my  vitals.  Nothing  on  the 
table  but  bacon  and  eggs  and  toast  and  coffee. 

Sunday,  April  21,  191-.  Sunday  again  and  a 
pleasant  day.  I  think  I  have  solved  the  problem 
of  the  sour-milk,  flapjack,  corn-muffin  famine. 
The  first  farmer  I  consulted  yesterday  told  me 
to  buy  skim  milk  and  buttermilk  by  the  gallon 
from  the  delivery  truck  of  some  creamery.  I 
promptly  ordered  a  gallon  per  day,  delivery  in 


52        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

two-gallon  cans  three  times  a  week.  Cut  down 
my  milk  supply  to  two  quarts  a  day.  The  com 
promise  has  let  so  much  sunshine  into  my  house 
hold  that  I  am  forcibly  reminded  of  the  school 
song  we  used  to  sing  so  shrilly  years  agone: 

"There  is  beauty  all  around 
When  there's  love  at  home, 
There  is  joy  in  every  sound 
When  there's  love  at  home. 
Peace  and  plenty  here  abide, 
Smiling  sweet  on  every  side; 
Time  does  softly,  sweetly  glide, 
When  there's  love  at  home." 

This  crisis  avoided,  I  shall  now  have  more  time 
to  devote  to  the  mooted  question  of  peas. 

Some  people  say  that  peas  are  a  delusion  and 
a  snare.  Perhaps  so.  Pigs  are  growing  fast  and 
we  are  becoming  excellent  friends.  They  no 
longer  shrink  from  me  with  loathing,  but  are 
gradually  acquiring  a  liking  for  my  society,  and 
it  might  be  called  a  taste  for  me,  which  impels 
them  to  nip  choice  morsels  from  my  legs  when 
ever  opportunity  offers.  Of  course  this  has  to  be 
discouraged  by  firm  if  stern  measures,  for  I  have 
no  intention  at  my  time  of  life  to  be,  in  a  way, 
reincarnated  as  pork. 

I  think  I  kicked  Galatea  a  strong  ten  feet  yes 
terday  when  she  had  literally  taken  a  "hog  bite" 
from  the  naturally  tempting  calf  of  my  left  leg. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  I  have  named  them  "Pyg- 


Utility  Solely  53 

malion"  and  "Galatea,"  and  call  them  "Pyg." 
and  "Gal."  in  ordinary  conversation. 

Whitewashed  the  inside  of  the  henhouse  to 
day  in  preparation  for  fresh  eggs.  My  day  of 
fancy  fowl  raising  is  past.  From  this  time  utility 
is  the  word.  Plymouth  Rocks,  white  or  barred, 
or  buff;  Wyandottes,  silver  penciled,  white,  buff, 
or  Columbian;  Rhode  Island  Reds,  rose  or  single- 
combed.  The  best  are  none  too  good  for  my  farm. 

Monday,  April  22,  191-.  Turned  over  another 
patch  of  garden  this  morning  before  breakfast 
and  raked  the  other  two  patches.  The  creamery 
man  brought  a  gallon  can  of  skim  milk  this 
morning.  He  left  it  on  the  sidewalk.  I  had  to  carry 
it  to  the  barn,  fully  fifty  yards.  It  seemed  un 
reasonably  heavy.  He  says  he  has  decided  that  he 
cannot  let  me  have  less  than  eight  gallons  a  week 
in  two  deliveries  at  the  sidewalk.  He  says  I  can 
carry  it  in  as  well  as  he.  I  argued  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  deliver  it  at  the  barn.  He  said,  rather 
rudely,  that  he  did  n't  give  a  damn  whether  it 
was  his  duty  or  not,  but  that  if  I  wanted  the  milk 
I  would  have  to  take  it  at  the  sidewalk.  And  so, 
as  I  did  want  the  milk  and  wanted  it  very  badly, 
I  was  forced  to  submit. 
How  true  it  is  that 

"Man's  inhumanity  to  man 
Makes  countless  thousands  mourn." 


54        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

However,  a  day  of  reckoning  will  surely  come.  It 
is  a  most  comforting  thought  to  every  lawyer  in 
a  country  town  and  community,  that  if  he  con 
tinues  in  practice  long  enough,  he  will  be  sure  to 
have  an  opportunity  to  take  a  retaliatory  whack 
at  whosoever  does  him  an  injury  or  drives  a  sharp 
bargain.  There  is  no  truer  saying  than 

"He  who  sows  the  wind 
Reaps  the  whirlwind." 

And  so  to  prevent  myself  from  becoming  lop 
sided  I  carry  the  can  half  the  distance  with  one 
hand  and  half  the  distance  with  the  other. 

The  pigs  are  doing  wonderfully  well.  I  have  as 
yet  not  made  up  my  mind  about  the  peas.  Think 
if  pleasant  to-morrow  I  will  plant  a  few  beets.  I 
am  afraid  I  am  encumbering  myself  with  seri 
ous  problems.  The  question  of  peas  and  fowl 
is  likely  to  make  strong  demands  upon  my  ju 
dicial  faculties.  I  think  that  to  base  a  decision 
in  so  important  a  matter  upon  the  flipping  of 
a  coin  is  the  mark  of  a  weak  and  untutored 
mind. 

I  feel  sure  that  mature  deliberation  will  result 
in  a  wise  decision.  It  is  well  to  take  time,  but  not 
too  much. 

"The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter  —  and  the  bird  is  on  the  wing." 

I  will  try  to  think  it  out  to-day  at  the  office. 


/  Lose  a  Client  55 

Tuesday,  April  23,  191-.  "It  has  been  a  day  of 
triumph  at  Capua,"  but  not  wholly  so.  I  am  at 
once  elated  and  cast  down.  I  have  decided  the 
matter  of  the  peas,  and  I  am  sure  the  decision 
does  credit  to  the  practical  working  of  my  mind. 
I  have  decided  to  plant  both  giant  and  dwarf 
peas.  I  will  plant  the  ground  I  have  already,  and 
with  great  toil  and  pains,  dressed,  turned,  and 
raked,  with  both  kinds  of  peas.  I  will  later  weed, 
hoe,  and  bush  the  giants  and  thoroughly  culti 
vate  the  dwarfs. 

Then  when  ripe  I  will  persuade  my  wife,  with 
subtle  flatteries,  and  compel  my  daughter,  by 
stern  parental  command,  to  pluck  and  shell  the 
same.  Is  not  this  a  fair  division  of  labor? 

I  was  very  much  pleased  to  have  arrived  at  so 
eminently  just  and  fair  a  decision. 

But  I  was  much  grieved  to  lose  a  client  in  a 
most  curious  way.  I  have  recently  installed  a 
new  typewriting  machine  in  my  office.  The  pre 
siding  goddess  of  the  machine  had  written  a  letter 
from  dictation  to  a  Mr.  J.  Smith,  a  gentleman 
who  in  early  life  had  suffered  the  loss  of  one  leg 
at  the  hip,  and  who  is,  not  unnaturally,  very  sen 
sitive  about  his  misfortune.  The  young  lady  was 
unused  to  the  new  machine  and  struck  the  figures 
"  J"  instead  of  the  initial  "  J."  both  in  the  address 
in  the  letter  and  on  the  envelope. 

I  had  been  absorbed  in  working  out  a  decision 


56        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

in  the  peas  question,  and  when  the  letter  was 
brought  to  me  for  signature  did  not  notice  the 
error  and  the  letter  was  sent,  bearing  my  sign 
manual,  directed  to 

Mr.  f  Smith, 

N.  H. 

To-day  I  received  a  letter  from  the  maddest  man 
in  the  United  States,  and  containing  material 
calculated  to  curl  my  hair  and  bring  out  goose 
pimples  all  over  me.  I  explained  as  well  as  I  could, 
but  I  feel  sure  he  will  never  believe  I  did  not  do  it 
intentionally. 

I  cannot  blame  him  a  bit.  It  was  infernally  ap 
propriate.  Verily  a  keen  sense  of  humor  some 
times  puts  a  man  in  a  most  unpleasant  position. 
I  am  quite  cast  down  over  the  thought  that  he 
believes  I  would  do  so  dastardly  a  thing.  If  he 
would  only  see  that  the  joke  was  decidedly  on 
me  and  not  on  him,  he  would  believe  me  innocent 
as  a  babe  unborn. 

Wednesday,  April  24,  191-.  Frost  this  morning. 
The  new  grass  was  stiff  with  it.  The  largest  flock 
of  grackles  I  ever  saw  passed  over  this  morn 
ing.  It  took  fifteen  minutes  for  the  flock  to 
pass. 

It  sounded  like  a  thousand  sewing  societies 
discussing  a  new  type  of  lingerie. 


Pigs  57 

Intended  to  plant  peas  to-day,  but  a  bit  too 
cold.  Hope  to  be  able  to  do  it  to-morrow. 

I  am  amazed  at  the  growth  of  my  pigs  and  am 
constantly  reminded  of  Alice  in  Wonderland 
when  she  ate  the  magic  cake  and  instantly  grew 
so  rapidly  that  she  had  to  put  one  foot  up  the 
chimney. 

When  I  bought  these  pigs  they  were  almost 
microscopic  in  size,  but  with  appetites  that  would 
shame  a  boa  constrictor.  The  main  difference  be 
tween  the  pigs  and  the  boa  constrictor,  apart 
from  their  architecture,  is  in  the  fact  that  the  boa 
constrictor  eats  one  huge  meal  once  a  month  or 
so,  and  the  pigs  eat  three  huge  meals  a  day,  and 
the  weary  hours  between  meals  are  employed 
by  them  in  rooting  out  light  refections  and  in 
protesting  raucously  when  the  supply  does  not 
equal  the  demand,  which  it  never  does. 

Naturalists  say  that  the  common  robin  red 
breast  daily  snakes  from  the  bosom  of  Mother 
Earth  a  thousand  and  odd  worms  and  feeds  them 
to  her  young.  But  Merula  migratoria  is  a  dub, 
a  piker,  an  "also  ran,"  to  the  man  that  single- 
handed  tries  to  minister  to  the  endless  wants  of 
a  couple  of  miniature,  and  daily  growing  less  so, 
pigs.  I  am  that  man,  and  I  feel  sure  that  I  am 
bound  to  achieve  a  record  for  devil-may-care 
daring. 

I  believe  that  no  man  in  this  country  of  rapidly 


58        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

increasing  population  and  expanding  needs  ought 
to  be  allowed  to  own  a  farm  and  lot  without  put 
ting  the  same  to  some  practical  use,  such  as  keep 
ing  a  cow,  or  pigs,  or  fowls. 

There  should  be  some  law  to  impose  this  as  a 
duty  upon  the  owners  of  real  estate.  In  the  early 
days  of  this  part  of  New  England  when  lands 
were  allotted  to  citizens,  just  about  land  enough 
to  pasture  a  goat  was  given  to  a  bachelor,  while 
a  lot  capable  of  pasturing  several  cows,  a  dozen 
sheep,  etc.,  was  allotted  a  man  who  had  given 
hostages  to  fortune.  In  many  ways  our  fore 
fathers  were  greatly  our  superiors  and  worthy  of 
imitation.  It  is  really  not  too  late.  It  is  a  simple 
matter  of  patriotism  to  keep  a  cow  and  a  flock  of 
hens.  If,  however,  a  man  is  bold  to  recklessness  he 
should  keep  a  pig.  If  he  fears  neither  man,  beast, 
nor  devil  he  should  keep  two. 

Thursday,  April  25,  191-.  While  I  have  been  so 
occupied  over  my  garden,  and  my  carefully 
drawn  plans  thereof  which  I  unfortunately  lost 
or  had  stolen  from  me  by  some  envious  and  aban 
doned  person,  the  spring  weather  has  brought  an 
amazing  growth  to  my  lawns,  of  which  I  have  a 
numerous  and  varied  assortment,  and  this  morn 
ing  I  realized  for  the  first  time  this  year  that  the 
grass,  upon  such  of  my  lawns  as  are  not  to  be 
ploughed  under,  needed  cutting  very  badly.  Ac- 


The  Lawn-Mower  59 

cordingly  I  hunted  up  the  newest  of  my  three 
lawn-mowers,  in  the  society  of  which  I  had  in 
years  past  travelled,  in  twelve-inch  swaths  up 
and  down  my  premises,  a  distance  of  at  least 
three  times  across  this  continent  in  its  widest 
part,  now  smoothly  bowling  along  amid  a  shower 
of  closely  clipped  clover,  witchgrass,  sorrel,  jim- 
son,  pig-  and  ragweed,  now  stopping  abruptly 
with  my  stomach  brought  suddenly  and  violently 
against  the  handle-bars  as  the  machine  vainly 
tried  to  bite  off  a  length  of  wire,  an  oyster  shell, 
a  rusty  currycomb,  a  piece  of  crockery,  or  some 
other  article  that  had  escaped  the  prying  teeth 
of  the  rake. 

Of  course  the  entire  squad  of  lawn-mowers 
that  I  had  sent  at  the  end  of  last  season  to  the 
machinist  for  an  overhauling,  had  broken  down 
during  this  winter  of  enforced  inactivity.  One 
would  n't  budge,  although  I  drenched  it  with 
oil;  the  second  ran  with  great  smoothness,  but 
the  knives  did  not  revolve ;  the  handle  of  the  third 
was  loose  and  the  screw-holes  so  worn  that  I 
could  not  tighten  them. 

So  I  was  obliged  to  order  a  new  one.  I  was 
grieved,  but  not  surprised,  as  it  has  been  my  cus 
tom  to  do  the  same  for  years.  A  habit  is  easily 
acquired  and  difficult  to  get  rid  of. 

The  lawn-mower  is  a  wonderful  invention,  and 
for  many  years  I  have  sedulously  cultivated  its 


60        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

acquaintance  with  enthusiasm  in  the  first  growth 
of  the  lawn  grass.  As  spring  and  summer  waxed 
and  waned  my  enthusiasm  sensibly  and  progres 
sively  abated,  until  at  the  close  of  the  season  I 
had  become  so  ding-bustedly  tired  and  sick  of 
pushing  that  machine  over  those  lawns,  of  rak 
ing,  wheeling  out,  and  burning  the  refuse,  of 
painfully  kneeling  on  gravel  walks  and  clipping 
the  borders,  that  I  declared  I  never  would  push 
a  lawn-mower  again  in  my  life. 

And  yet,  so  strong  is  habit  that  at  the  advent 
of  the  spring  grass  my  enthusiasm  returns,  and  I 
buy  a  new  and  expensive  lawn-mower  to  take  the 
place  of  the  one  warranted  by  the  dealer,  and  but 
a  year  ago,  to  last  as  long  as  I  should. 

Sometimes  I  am  forced  to  conclude  that  deal 
ers  are  a  bit  over-charitable  toward  their  wares, 
and  over-enthusiastic  in  their  description  of  their 
many  excellences,  and  especially  of  their  dura 
bility.  It  may  be  that  a  local  dealer,  knowing  my 
undeserved  reputation  for  physical  and  mental 
slothfulness,  is  justified  in  representing  and  war 
ranting  his  goods  to  last  as  long  as  I  shall  last, 
but  it  is  never  safe  to  make  an  unconditional 
statement  of  the  kind,  because  no  mere  man  can 
safely  disregard  the  consideration  of  influences 
and  powers  of  a  collateral  nature  that  may  work 
a  mighty  change  in  one's  habits. 

And  when  a  dealer  makes  such  a  representa- 


Pinions  61 

tion  or  warranty,  he  should  be  brought  to  the 
bull-ring  of  public  censure  if  he  fails  to  make  his 
warranty  good. 

But  I  have  never  known  a  dealer  to  toe  the 
scratch.  Whenever  I  call  one's  attention  to  the 
matter,  he  says  the  trouble  is  in  the  pinion.  I  do 
not  know  now,  and  never  have  been  able  to  tell, 
what  a  pinion  is.  I  thought  it  was  something  that 
birds,  especially  eagles  and  white  doves  of  peace, 
used  to  fly  with.  In  the  oratorio  of  "The  Crea 
tion"  I  have  heard  eminent  vocalists  sing 

"  On  mighty  pinions." 

If  Haydn  had  lived  in  the  age  of  lawn-mowers 
and  had  for  several  years  bought  lawn-mowers, 
he  would  never  have  used  the  word  in  that 
connection. 

Of  course,  not  knowing,  and  being  utterly  un 
able  to  find  out,  what  a  pinion  is,  and  being  ut 
terly  in  the  dark  as  to  the  proper  spelling  of  the 
word,  I  may  be  miles  off  the  track. 

But  of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  a  pinion  in  a 
lawn-mower  is  something  that  is  responsible  for 
every  ill  incidental  to  lawn-mowers,  and  that  the 
dealer  is  not  responsible  for  any  warranty,  how 
ever  strongly  expressed. 

Friday.,  April  26,  191-.  Planted  lettuce  and  beets 
to-day.  According  to  the  pictures  in  the  seed 


62        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

catalogues  I  shall  have  to  harvest  my  lettuce 
with  a  scythe  and  my  beet  greens  with  a  sickle. 
Later  on,  with  help,  I  may  be  able  to  lift  one 
of  the  beets  at  a  time.  Possibly  I  shall  have  so 
increased  my  strength  by  hard  and  continuous 
labor  that  when  the  beets  are  ripe  I  shall  have  no 
difficulty  in  harvesting  them. 

I  have  two  large  cellars  separated  from  the 
furnace  room.  So  I  feel  sure  of  having  room 
enough  for  my  crops.  It  will  not  do  to  plant  too 
many.  Cabbages  to-morrow. 

Heard  and  saw  some  meadow-larks  in  the  field 
behind  the  house.  Also  saw  the  first  swallows 
to-day,  of  the  barn  variety,  with  their  beau 
tiful  deep  blue  backs  and  white  breasts  tinged 
with  scarlet.  Their  arrival  spoke  very  plainly  of 
summer. 

Some  tiny  warblers  in  a  tall  maple  tree  kept  up 
the  most  delightful  singing  and  twittering  all  the 
time  I  was  working  in  the  garden  —  beg  par 
don,  on  my  farm.  I  hated  to  quit  work,  even  to 
go  in  to  breakfast.  Pigs  are  growing  beyond  be 
lief.  I  do  hate  to  lug  that  four-gallon  can  twice  a 
week. 

Saturday,  April  27,  191-.  No  new  birds  to-day. 
Bought  a  baker's  dozen  Rhode  Island  Reds  to 
day  in  laying  form.  It  will  be  a  treat  to  have 
fresh  eggs.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  miss  the  thrill  of 


Their  arrival  spoke  very  plainly  of  summer 


Sheep  63 

uncertainty  that  one  feels  when  breaking  a  store 
egg  in  the  morning,  the  wondering  whether  you 
will  throw  the  egg,  cup,  and  all  out  of  the  dining- 
room  window,  or  go  out  of  the  window  yourself. 

Sunday,  April  28,  191-.  Had  to  work  in  office  all 
day.  Worse  luck. 

Monday,  April  29,  191-.  My  R.I.R.  hens  have 
not  come.  Rather  looked  for  them  to-day. 
Planted  a  few  short  rows  of  cauliflower;  also 
Swiss  chard. 

I  am  thinking  of  doing  something  with  sheep. 
Saw  a  literary  farmer  friend  of  mine  to-day,  and 
he  suggested  that  I  buy  a  cosset  of  him.  I  said 
I  would  think  of  it.  I  am  doing  it  now,  but  I 
have  about  decided  to  try  it.  There  are  certain 
elements  about  the  industry  that  appeal  to  me 
strongly.  Although  individually  the  domestic 
sheep  seems  a  rather  tame  proposition,  yet  I  am 
convinced  that  the  possession  of  sheep  is  not 
wholly  without  its  moments  of  excitement  —  in 
tense  excitement  at  times.  I  have  been  thor 
oughly  convinced  of  this  from  something  that 
took  place  to-day. 

After  talking  with  my  literary  friend  I  thought 
I  would  make  some  inquiries  of  another  friend 
who  lives  a  few  miles  from  Exeter  and  has  long 
been  interested  in  sheep. 


64        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Accordingly  that  afternoon,  after  I  had  cleared 
my  desk,  I  got  my  son  to  take  me  out  to  his 
place.  On  the  way  I  told  him  about  my  intention 
to  cultivate  a  few  mutton  chops  and  listened 
with  some  amusement  to  his  rather  disgusted 
remarks.  Just  as  we  drove  into  my  friend's  yard 
he  was  driving  a  long  line  of  cattle  and  sheep 
from  a  field  or  paddock  to  the  barn.  At  the  head 
of  the  procession  was  a  ram,  a  magnificent  speci 
men,  with  magnificent  horns  curving  like  twin 
French  horns,  a  thoroughbred,  high-stepping 
gait,  and  the  most  beautiful  golden  eyes  in  the 
world. 

It  reminded  me  most  forcibly  of  Seton's 
"Krag,"  the  Kootenay  ram.  I  burned  to  possess 
it.  The  ram  headed  the  procession  as  by  the  di 
vine  right  of  kings,  and  my  friend  brought  up 
the  rear,  carrying  a  goad  stick.  Seeing  me  he 
waved  his  hand,  called  to  me  to  wait,  and  went 
back  to  the  house. 

As  the  procession  neared  us,  a  handsome  Hoi- 
stein  heifer  tried  to  cut  in  ahead  of  the  ram, 
whereupon  that  gentle  and  harmless  animal 
shook  his  head,  curved  his  neck,  executed  a  few 
dainty  and  well-executed  dancing  steps,  shot  for 
ward  and  struck  that  luckless  heifer  so  lusty  a 
blow  in  her  stomach  that  she  resounded  like  a, 
bass  drum,  let  out  a  hoarse  bla-a-t  of  pained  re 
monstrance,  and  with  promptness  withdrew  to 


"  Thet  There  Ram  "  65 

her  proper  place  in  the  procession.  Just  then  my 
friend  came  out  and  greeted  me.  I  got  down  and 
told  him  I  was  interested  in  sheep  and  wanted  to 
know  something  about  buying  some. 

Somewhat  to  my  surprise  he  said  he  had  no 
sheep  to  sell,  but  would  sell  the  ram.  I  replied 
that  I  was  afraid  he  was  rather  too  lively  a  con 
tract  for  me  to  undertake,  but  was  promptly  in 
formed  that  the  animal  was  a  perfect  pet;  as 
gentle  as  a  kitten;  and  to  further  assure  me  he 
went  up  to  the  animal,  rubbed  his  splendid  head 
and  patted  his  shapely  flanks,  and  "'lowed" 
with  much  homely  imprecation  that  "one  of 
them  there  turtle  doves  was  a  bald-headed  eagle'* 
in  comparison  with  "thet  there  ram."  As  he  said 
this  he  went  to  get  his  milk  pails,  all  the  while 
talking  volubly  about  the  extraordinary  and  un 
precedented  docility  of  the  ram. 

I  was  interested  to  observe  that  the  cans  and 
pails  were  ranged  in  rows  under  a  corn  house 
supported  upon  piles  about  three  feet  from  the 
ground,  a  very  neat  arrangement  affording  per 
fect  shelter  with  plenty  of  country  air. 

To  get  the  cans  he  was  compelled  to  go  down 
on  all  fours  and  to  take  them  out  one  by  one. 
The  width  of  the  space  was  about  twelve  feet, 
and  in  order  to  reach  some  of  the  more  remote 
cans  his  head  and  shoulders  entirely  disappeared 
beneath  the  building  from  which  his  voice  still 


66        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

poured  forth  paeans  of  praise  of  the  dove-like 
meekness  of  the  golden-eyed  pacifist. 

At  that  very  moment  the  ram  became  inter 
ested,  probably  from  the  rattle  and  clang  of  the 
milk  pails.  I  also  became  interested  in  the  ram.  I 
observed  with  amazement  that  he  was  making 
the  same  preparations  that  heralded  his  attack 
on  the  cow,  and  noted  with  satisfaction  that  these 
preparations  were  directed,  not  at  me,  but  at  my 
garrulous  friend  still  crying  the  saint-like  virtues 
of  the  ram. 

This  time,  owing  perhaps  to  the  reduced  size 
of  the  target  —  which,  however,  was  big  enough 
in  all  conscience  —  the  preparations  were  on  a 
more  careful  and  pretentious  scale.  The  ram 
was  evidently  plotting  the  range  and  allowing 
for  the  variation  of  wind,  tide,  and  phases  of 
the  moon.  Instead  of  a  few  delicate  steps  he 
danced  the  complicated  snake  dance  of  the  O jib- 
ways.  Then  he  slowly  curved  his  massive  neck 
until  the  iron  frontlet  was  in  exact  line.  Then  he 
slowly  backed  a  few  yards,  quivered  a  moment, 
and  — 

Now  I  realize  perfectly  well  that  as  a  decent, 
law-abiding  citizen,  as  a  humane  man,  as  a  kind 
neighbor,  I  should  have  warned  my  friend  of  his 
danger.  I  was  very  much  to  blame  in  the  matter. 
But  then  my  friend  had  assured  me  with  homely 
asseverations  that  the  animal  was  a  sucking  dove 


A  Japanese  Juggler  67 

of  peace,  a  very  Quaker  in  his  policy  of  non- 
resistance  and  non-aggression. 

Had  I  warned  him  he  would  have  laughed  at 
me.  Perhaps  he  would  have  been  angry  and  I 
might  have  lost  a  friendship;  perhaps  we  might 
have  been  embroiled  over  the  matter.  As  it  was, 
he  did  not  laugh  at  me,  nor  was  he  angry  with  me, 
and  I  did  not  miss  the  show.  And  so,  as  I  would 
not  have  missed  it  for  many  times  the  price  of 
the  ram,  I  conclude  that  I  took  the  wiser  course. 

As  I  was  saying,  the  ram  quivered  a  moment 
and  then  shot  forward  like  an  express  train  at  all 
of  my  friend  that  remained  in  sight.  There  was  a 
thud,  a  grunt,  and  a  terrific  clangor  of  milk  cans, 
and  my  friend  disappeared  like  a  flash,  instantly 
to  reappear  with  unabated  speed  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  building,  preceded,  surrounded,  and 
followed  by  a  resounding,  clanging,  and  echoing 
cloud  of  tin  cans,  while  the  ram,  somewhat  mys 
tified  over  the  abrupt  but  sonorous  disappear 
ance  of  his  victim,  shook  his  head  doubtfully  on 
the  hither  side. 

In  the  early  seventies  a  troupe  of  acrobats 
known  as  the  "Japanese  Jugglers"  came  to  Exe 
ter.  The  youngest,  smallest,  and  most  expert  of 
its  members  was  known  as  "Little  Allright."  One 
of  his  feats  was  to  take  a  flying  start  and  dive 
through  a  barrel  series  of  hoops,  in  which  had 
been  fastened  lighted  candles,  without  extin- 


68        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

guishing  them.  It  was  a  feat  that  called  forth 
the  most  unbounded  enthusiasm,  but  if  my 
friend  could  stage  his  performance  with  the  ram, 
the  corn  house,  and  the  milk  cans,  he  could  be 
come,  without  the  slightest  doubt,  one  of  the 
foremost  vaudeville  artists  of  the  day. 

But  then,  come  to  think  of  it,  to  withstand  the 
nightly  shock  of  that  ram,  he  would  require  so 
much  padding  that  I  am  quite  sure  he  could  n't 
pass  under  the  corn  barn.  Certainly  not  through 
a  barrel. 

So  I  have  not  yet  bought  any  sheep,  but  am  on 
the  lookout  for  gentle  animals,  warranted  not  to 
bite. 

Tuesday,  April  30,  191-.  My  determination  to 
raise  sheep  had  dated  from  a  somewhat  recent 
experience  in  the  goodly  town  of  Boston.  It  hap 
pened  not  long  ago  that  I  found  myself  one  eve 
ning  in  that  somewhat  cosmopolitan  village  clad 
in  evening  clothes  of  a  somewhat  passe  cut  and 
style  and  gasolenely  odorous. 

I  have  forgotten  just  what  occasioned  my  pres 
ence  there.  My  impression  is  that  I  had  been  en 
gaged  at  the  eleventh  hour  to  fill,  or  to  try  to  fill, 
the  place  of  some  speaker  who  was  unavoidably 
absent.  I  feel  quite  certain  that  this  was  the  case, 
for  I  do  not  recollect  any  invitation  to  speak 
when  it  was  otherwise. 


A  Gustatory  Bender  69 

I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  the  motives  of  the 
committees  in  withholding  their  invitations  until 
it  is  morally  certain  that  no  other  speaker  can  be 
obtained,  but  I  do  criticize  the  abruptness  of  the 
notice  that  gives  me  scant  time  to  gasolene  my 
veteran  evening  clothes  and  to  blacken  such 
parts  of  my  underclothing  as  might  otherwise 
shine  with  a  white  radiance  through  the  moth- 
holes. 

At  all  events,  whatever  the  reason,  I  found  my 
self  at  a  late  hour  on  a  downtown  street  of  Bos 
ton,  in  evening  clothes,  with  the  rest  of  the  night 
at  my  disposal  and  with  a  dire  longing  for  gen 
erous  food  and  drink,  which  fact  is  of  itself  con 
vincing  evidence  that  I  had  been  attending  a 
Boston  banquet. 

I  had  long  desired  to  eat  a  generous  and  gen 
uine  English  mutton  chop  and  to  drink  a  mug 
of  musty  ale,  like  the  heroes  of  Dickens  and  of 
Thackeray.  Evenings  at  home  after  a  frugal  meal 
of  toast  and  fried  potatoes  I  would  find  myself 
reading  of  chop-houses  made  immortal  by  these 
masters,  and  feeling  as  if  I  had  not  eaten  a  square 
meal  for  a  month. 

So  I  decided,  after  a  careful  review  of  my  finan 
cial  condition,  that  the  time  had  come  for  a  gus 
tatory  bender,  and  I  sought  and  found  a  famous 
grill  where  one  was  allowed  to  select  his  particu 
lar  chop  and  to  superintend  its  preparation;  and 


70        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

after  exercising  profound  judgment  in  the  selec 
tion  I  took  my  seat  at  a  side  table  and  buried  my 
face  in  a  pewter  of  foaming  ale.  Now  I  had  never 
drunk  ale,  and  had  never  seen  any  musty  ale  be 
fore,  and  so  I  trust  that  no  lover  of  brown  stout 
or  of  malt  in  any  form  may  take  my  criticism  of 
that  particular  brew  of  musty  ale  as  a  general 
condemnation  of  malt  stimulants.  My  first  in 
troduction  to  the  genus  ale  should  have  begun 
at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder. 

Dickens's  and  Thackeray's  roysterers  always 
took  a  long  pull  at  the  pewter.  Men  in  evening 
dress  and  in  business  suits  at  other  tables  were 
doing  the  like,  and  I  did  or  tried  to  do  the  same 
thing.  It  was  the  toughest  pull  I  ever  took  at 
anything. 

I  got  down  one  mouthful  by  extraordinary 
effort  and  hastily  replaced  my  pewter  on  the 
table  trying  to  avoid  shuddering  myself  out  of 
my  chair.  The  taste  reminded  me  very  forcibly 
of  Moxie  with  a  generous  infusion  of  mothballs 
and  an  equally  generous  admixture  of  soft  soap, 
nux  vomica,  and  coal  tar.  A  liking  for  it  is,  I  am 
sure,  acquired  only  after  acts  of  protracted  hero 
ism  of  which  I  am,  I  fear,  incapable. 

Before  I  had  wholly  restrained  my  impulse  to 
make  a  hurried  adjournment  to  the  outer  air  in 
search  of  a  convenient  and  comparatively  de 
serted  alley,  the  waiter,  a  smooth-shaven  man 


Musty  Ale  71 

with  a  sliver  of  short  whisker  in  front  of  each  ear, 
to  counteract,  if  possible,  the  effect  of  his  long 
upper  lip,  said  in  accents  that  rendered  perfect 
his  cockney  disguise,  "Yez  chop,  sor-r-r  —  Yis 
sor-r-r  —  Thank  yez,  sor-r-r"  —  and  withdrew 
to  respectful  attention  while  I  began  on  the  chop, 
hoping  that  it  might  act  as  an  antidote  for  the 
taste  of  the  ale,  but  finding  to  my  dismay  that  it 
tasted  of  the  wool,  owing  to  the  fact  that  they 
had  been  so  closely  associated  for  so  many  years, 
as  the  English  seldom  kill  under  five  years  of 
age. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  this  particular  chop  tasted 
as  if  it  had  been  fully  five  years  since  it  had  been 
dissected,  and  the  combination  of  the  flavors  of 
hops,  mothballs,  soft  soap,  wool,  oil,  nux  vomica, 
and  coal  tar  was  rather  too  much  for  a  country 
stomach  accustomed  to  corned  beef,  cabbage, 
boiled  onions,  tripe,  and  other  simple  fare,  and 
I  was  forced  to  leave  before  the  repast  was  fin 
ished.  Outraged  nature  could  stand  no  more. 

Before  I  left  I  summoned  the  waiter  and  also 
summoned  all  my  fortitude  as  he  brought  my 
bill.  It  was  needed,  I  assure  you. 

People  in  faints  have  been  revived  by  being 
made  to  inhale  the  smoke  of  burning  feathers, 
and  an  overseer  on  the  plantation  of  one  Simon 
Legree  ran  a  pin  to  its  head  into  a  fainting  woman 
with  prompt  and  satisfactory  result.  Drunken 


72        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

men  are  sobered  by  vigorous  slaps  in  the  face  or 
by  being  drenched  with  pails  of  ice  water. 

But  no  more  efficacious  scheme  was  ever  de 
vised  by  any  one  than  the  bill  for  my  chop  and 
ale  presented  by  that  waiter.  I  gasped,  stut 
tered,  but  paid  it  and  stalked  out  in  high  dis 
pleasure  to  think  it  over.  But  I  reflected  that  all 
around  me  were  men  and  women  nightly  paying 
such  prices  for  such  food;  and  it  struck  me  then 
that  any  farmer,  amateur  or  otherwise,  could  do 
no  better  than  to  cater  to  their  peculiar  appetites. 
I  then  and  there  registered  a  vow  to  high  heaven 
that  should  I  ever  get  the  taste  of  that  nauseous 
combination  out  of  my  mouth  and  memory  to 
such  an  extent  that  I  might  turn  a  part  of  my 
thoughts  and  attention  to  other  aims,  I  would 
raise  English  mutton  chops  for  profit  solely,  and 
perhaps  in  the  ample  income  derived  from  the 
business  I  might  in  time  forget  how  they  tasted 
in  combination  with  musty  ale. 

Wednesday,  May  1,  191-.  May  Day!!  I  think  the 
words  deserve  at  least  two  exclamation  marks, 
each  one  a  thrill,  for  I  still  feel  a  thrill  when  the 
day  comes  round.  It  is  not  wholly  a  reminiscent 
thrill,  although  apart  from  the  delightful  feeling 
that 

"  Der  Mai  ist  gekommen, 
Der  Winter  ist  aus," 


"  Call  Me  Early,  Mother  Dear  "  73 

and  that  for  at  least  five  happy  months  I  shall 
have  a  vacation  from  shovelling  coal,  sifting 
ashes,  and  from  spending  the  greater  part  of  my 
waking,  and  a  considerable  part  of  what  is  sup 
posed  to  be  my  sleeping,  hours  in  the  furnace 
room,  reminiscence  and  memory  produce  a  very 
decided  thrill. 

May  Day !  —  when  we  used  to  walk  leagues  in 
the  woods  to  gather  Mayflowers  with  which  we 
filled  small  baskets,  adding  for  generous  weight, 
molasses  gibs,  striped  stick  candy,  and,  last  of  all, 
mottoes  in  pink  letters  on  a  white  candy  lozenge, 
and  hung  them  on  our  at  that  time  best  girl's 
doorknob,  rang  the  bell  and  fled,  but  not  too  far 
to  observe  what  happened. 

And  it  was  happiness  when  that  particular  divin 
ity  came  to  the  door  and  took  the  basket  with  her 
own  fair  hands  and  sent  a  smile  into  the  darkness, 
which  nevertheless  reached  your  heart  and  sent 
you  home  the  lightest-hearted  boy  in  the  world. 

And  what  misery  and  wretchedness  when  her 
brother  came  out  and  with  coarse  laughter  appro 
priated  the  refreshments  and  put  them  where 
they  would'do  the  most  good  —  at  least  to  him 
self  —  and  then  either  threw  the  flowers  away  or 
used  them  to  make  up  a  basket  for  his  own  partic 
ular  divinity,  while  you  retired  vowing  that  you 
would  "everlastingly  lick  the  peagreen  stuffin' 
outer  him  the  next  day." 


74        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

And  then  there  was  the  May  fair  which  the 
Unitarian  Society,  even  in  those  remote  and  al 
most  prehistoric  days,  had  yearly  celebrated  since 
the  Devonian  Period  or  the  Upper  Silurian. 

And  in  those  days  it  was  regarded  as  a  seri 
ous  misdemeanor,  in  fact  almost  a  felony,  for  a 
father  to  neglect  or  refuse  to  take  every  member 
of  his  family,  able  to  walk  or  ride,  to  this  fair 
and  to  blow  them  to  the  finest  supper  ever  served 
in  the  world,  with  escalloped  oysters  and  cold 
chicken  and  tongue  and  ham  and  lobster  salad 
and  hot  rolls  and  mashed  potatoes,  and  three 
kinds  of  ice-cream  and  a  different  kind  of  cake 
for  each  one,  and  tea  and  coffee. 

Other  church-fair  suppers  had  brown  bread 
and  beans  and  oysters,  and  mince  and  apple  and 
squash  and  lemon  and  Washington  pie,  all  very 
well  in  their  way,  but  not  in  the  same  class  as  the 
May  fair  suppers.  And  then  there  was  music  and 
dancing  and  games  and  —  well,  how  can  one  who 
has  had  these  delightful  experiences  help  feeling 
a  thrill  when  the  day  comes  round  again? 

To  be  sure  it  is  not  the  same  thrill,  because 
business,  or  rheumatism,  or  laziness,  or  increas 
ing  flesh,  or  corns  prevent  one  who  is  approach 
ing  threescore  years  from  going  after  Mayflow 
ers  and  from  making  and  hanging  May  baskets. 

One  may  still  go  to  May -fair  suppers  and  en 
joy  them,  too,  but  not  with  the  zest  of  boyhood 


Balmoral  Boots  75 

or  of  youth.  Alas!  that  it  is  so,  but  one  may  be 
thankful  for  the  thrill  that  May  Day  still  brings. 
One  may  still  go  out  and  listen  to  the  song  spar 
row  and  the  pewee.  I  did  this  to-day  and  it  was 
a  delight,  and  then  I  spent  an  hour  in  setting  out 
early  cabbages  and  cauliflower,  which  was  also 
very  pleasant,  as  was  the  fact  that  my  lettuce 
and  peas  are  peeping  through  the  soil,  and  my 
Rhode  Island  Reds  are  scratching  and  prating 
cheerfully  behind  their  wire  fence,  and  are  really 
laying  eggs  that  taste  so  differently  from  those 
I  put  down  in  water-glass  last  fall  and  which  have 
lasted  until  now.  Long  live  May  Day  ! 

"You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear; 
To-morrow  '11  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New 

Year, 
Of  all  the  glad  New  Year,  mother,  the  maddest,  merriest 

day, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May." 

And  when  I  read  it  I  could  picture  a  certain 
young  lady  in  that  very  schoolroom,  a  young 
lady  with  a  plaid  dress  and  balmoral  boots  and 
white  cotton  stockings,  as  a  radiant  young  Queen 
of  the  May,  radiant  beyond  any  Queen  of  the 
May,  before  or  since. 

Thursday,  May  2,  191-.  Yesterday  I  was  remi 
niscing.  To-day  I  was  brought  back  to  practical 


76        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

things  with  a  round  turn.  It  was  almost  a  shock. 
It  was  a  shock.  My  creamery  man  brought  in 
his  bill.  I  looked  at  it  and  then  at  him.  My  face 
must  have  betrayed  amazement  when  I  looked 
at  the  bill,  and  reproach,  sorrow,  and  indignation 
when  I  looked  at  him. 

I  tried  to  wither  him  with  a  glance.  He  did  n't 
wither  worth  a  cent.  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  faced 
a  man  with  a  bill  of  that  size  without  betraying 
uneasiness.  It  is  said  that  "a  guilty  conscience 
needs  no  accuser";  that  in  itself  should  have 
caused  his  eyes  to  droop  in  shame  before  my 
accusing  glance.  But  his  eyes  drooped  not  a 
droop,  but  gazed  at  me  with  the  utmost  coolness. 
Then  he  said,  with  what  seemed  to  me  uncalled- 
for  familiarity: 

"Well,  sport,  do  I  get  my  money?" 

"You'll  get  kicked  off  my  place  if  you  don't 
cut  out  your  fresh  talk,"  I  answered. 

"I'm  not  on  your  place,"  he  answered  with  a 
grin. 

That  was  true;  he  was  on  the  sidewalk  and  I 
felt  a  bit  foolish  for  my  sudden  heat. 

I  like  the  familiarity  of  my  friends,  like  to  have 
them  call  me  by  my  first  name,  but  nothing  riles 
me  quicker  than  the  familiarity  of  a  comparative 
stranger. 

I  had  intended  disputing  the  bill  and  refusing 
to  pay  because  he  was  evidently  putting  a  high 


A  Bill  11 

price  for  the  unquestioned  antiquity  of  his  sour 
milk  and  buttermilk.  Antiquity  is  a  valuable 
asset  when  possessed  by  furniture,  spirituous 
liquor,  cheese,  and  violins  of  the  right  make,  but 
it  is  seldom  a  desirable  quality  for  food  of  any 
other  kind  but  cheese. 

But  having  lost  my  temper  I  no  longer  had  the 
opportunity  or  desire  for  cool  and  stinging  sar 
casm,  which  would  have  been,  I  am  sure,  lost 
upon  him. 

So  I  paid  an  outrageous  bill,  emptied  the  can 
into  a  tub,  returned  the  can  to  the  man,  and  told 
him  I  was  through.  Then  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  the  only  way  out  of  the  difficulty  was  in  the 
prompt  purchase  of  a  cow.  I  felt  something  as 
when  a  boy,  fearing  to  jump  off  a  shed  roof, 
throws  his  hat  down  as  a  sort  of  encouragement 
and  then  follows  it  even  at  the  risk  of  breaking 
his  legs.  And  so  when  I  fired  the  creamery  man 
I  knew  that  I  was  merely  throwing  my  hat  off  the 
shed  roof  and  must,  by  all  the  rules  and  tenets 
of  boyhood  and  manhood,  follow  that  hat  or  be 
forever  disgraced. 

My  pigs  must  have  milk,  and  either  I  have  got 
to  buy  a  cow  or  recall  that  infernal  creamery  man 
and  submit  to  his  fatal  freshness,  for  I  feel  sure 
that  it  will  either  be  fatal  to  him  or  to  me,  and 
the  uncertainty  of  it  is  what  drives  me  to  a  de 
cision.  I  will,  I  musty  buy  a  cow.  Let 's  see,  to-day 


78        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

is  Thursday.  To-morrow  I  have  a  case  to  try, 
and  as  I  am  the  only  one  that  knows  this  particu 
lar  case  I  cannot  very  well  shove  it  onto  Dick's 
shoulders.  I  really  must  keep  law  and  farming 
distinct.  The  law  practice  seems  necessary  both 
to  maintain  me  and  the  expenses  of  farming.  I 
think  I  will  get  the  doctor  and  his  wife  to  take 
us  out  into  the  country  on  Sunday  afternoon,  if 
pleasant,  and  I  will  buy  my  cow.  The  farmers  do 
not  observe  the  pasture  custom  of  waiting  until 
May  20th  with  their  own  cattle.  And  in  the  after 
noon  I  can  make  a  better  guess  as  to  the  milk 
condition  of  the  cows.  Then  if  I  make  a  trade  I 
will  have  the  cow  milked  in  my  presence  and  see 
just  what  she  gives  and  how  she  milks. 

Having  settled  this  question  I  fed  my  pigs. 
They  are  coming  along  finely  and  already  when 
they  stand  up  against  the  fence,  squealingly 
awaiting  their  milk,  their  heads  come  nearly  to 
the  top  of  the  fence.  With  the  unlimited  quan 
tity  of  fresh  milk  I  shall  undoubtedly  have  from 
my  new  cow,  they  will  improve  wonderfully.  Of 
course  I  shall  keep  the  cream  for  the  family  and 
give  the  skim  milk  to  the  pigs.  This,  with  a  little 
middlings,  and  bran,  and  wheat  screenings,  and 
corn  meal,  and  shorts,  and  stock  feed,  and  tank 
age,  and  ground  oats,  and  boiled  potatoes,  and 
green  stuff  from  the  garden  and  farm,  and  table 
waste,  will  make  an  inexpensive  food  for  them 


Supply  and  Demand  79 

and  a  mixture  that  ought  to  furnish  every  neces 
sary  ingredient  for  the  rapid  and  healthy  growth 
of  good  pork. 

Then  again  the  expense  for  the  keep  of  a  cow  in 
the  summer  season  must  be  negligible.  With  the 
clippings  from  such  of  my  lawns  as  are  not  to  be 
ploughed  up,  I  ought  to  get  the  most  of  her  feed. 
And  this,  supplemented  by  a  little  soy-bean  hay 
and  clover,  and  a  few  feeds  daily  of  various  kinds 
of  stock  feed,  and  oil  meal,  and  gluten,  and  cot 
ton-seed  meal,  and  green  stuff  from  the  garden, 
and  cornstalks  when  ripe,  and  pumpkins  and  car 
rots  cut  up  into  small  and  non-chokeable  pieces, 
will  keep  her  in  the  best  of  milking  condition. 

It  seems  perfectly,  even  ridiculously  simple. 
Feed  her  generously  and  she  feeds  the  pigs.  One 
hand  washes  the  other.  Equalize  the  supply  and 
demand  and  peace  and  plenty  abound. 

And  yet  farmers  would  have  us  believe  that 
their  calling  is  the  most  difficult,  laborious,  and 
ill-paid  in  the  world.  I  am  sure  they  are  grossly 
mistaken.  It  is  merely  a  matter  of  industry  and 
common  sense,  without  which  no  business  can 
be  successful.  What  better  illustration  can  be 
given?  For  instance,  suppose  I  have  one  dozen 
milking  cows;  a  good  pasture  capable  of  feed 
ing  them;  good  tillable  land  for  field  corn,  corn 
fodder,  rye,  wheat,  potatoes,  soy  beans,  mangel- 
wurzels,  turnips,  and  carrots. 


80        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

It  must  be  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world  to 
raise  enough  of  these  standard  crops  to  keep 
your  cows  up  to  the  highest  average  standard  of 
productiveness,  and  to  leave  a  considerable  part 
of  the  crops  for  family  consumption  and  for  sale. 

Suppose  I  keep  Jerseys  exclusively.  With  my 
method  of  feeding  it  would  seem  that  twelve 
quarts  per  day  from  each  animal  would  be  a 
fair  average.  One  hundred  and  forty-four  quarts 
a  day  of  Jersey  milk.  To  be  conservative  call  it 
one  hundred  and  forty;  at  twelve  cents  a  quart, 
that  would  be  $16.80  —  still,  being  conservative, 
call  it  $15. 

Fifteen  dollars  average  receipts  per  diem. 

On  the  other  side  the  main  expenses  would  be 
grain  for  your  cows.  I  should  think  one  bag  of 
feed  per  day  would  be  sufficient.  Say  $3  per  day. 
One  hired  man  could  do  the  work  with  your  help 
easily.  Call  this  $60  per  month  and  board :  $2  per 
day.  Board  would  cost  practically  nothing  be 
cause  you  will  raise  enough  to  feed  your  family 
and  hired  man  from  what  is  left  over  after  the 
stock  are  fed. 

Taxes,  repairs,  and  insurance  would  scarcely 
amount  to  more  than  $1  per  day.  Call  it  $2  to 
leave  a  comfortable  margin.  I  do  not  wish  to 
neglect  the  expense  column  in  a  single  item.  Of 
course  I  may  have  omitted  something  in  the 
nature  of  expense,  but  it  must  certainly  be  cov- 


Profits  81 

ered  by  the  allowance  for  repairs,  taxes,  and  in 
surance. 

So  as  I  figure  it  there  is  a  daily  receipt  of  $15 
and  a  daily  expense  of  $7,  leaving  a  net  profit  of 
$8  from  twelve  cows. 

I  have  not  figured  the  receipts  from  an  occa 
sional  load  of  hay  or  potatoes  or  garden  truck, 
and  an  occasional  calf  or  pig;  nor  have  I  in 
cluded  the  profit  in  hogs,  provided  I  give  the 
skim  milk  to  hogs  and  sell  the  cream.  It  is  said 
that  one  third  of  Jersey  milk  is  cream.  A  con 
servative  estimate  is  one  quarter.  Cream  is 
worth  eighty  cents  a  quart.  Thirty-five  quarts 
of  cream  at  eighty  cents  is  $28.  By  making  this 
use  of  my  milk  I  would  nearly  double  my  income 
and  yearly  market  a  dozen  or  more  hogs.  I  am 
saying  nothing  of  milk-fed  chickens  and  eggs. 

Really,  when  I  consider  the  opportunities  a 
farmer  has  to  make  money,  and  when  I  reduce 
these  opportunities  to  cold  figures  which  never 
lie,  I  no  longer  wonder  how  an  average  farmer 
can  afford  his  motor-truck  and  his  expensive 
touring-car,  while  I,  as  a  lawyer  with  a  good 
practice,  feel  that  a  Ford  runabout  is  a  luxury 
that  I  cannot  afford. 

Friday.,  May  3,  191-.  I  have  secured  one  sheep. 
A  doe  —  I  mean,  of  course,  a  ewe.  The  man  who 
sold  her  to  me,  a  very  distinguished  literary  man 


82        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

of  a  neighboring  town,  made  absolutely  no  at 
tempt  to  take  advantage  of  my  age  or  inexperi 
ence.  On  the  contrary,  he  laid  his  cards  on  the 
table  and  I  obtained  the  filly  —  I  —  ah  —  mean 
doe,  that  is  to  say,  the  ewe  —  at  a  remarkably 
reasonable  price  considering  her  peculiar  talents 
and  almost  superhuman  or  rather  supernatural 
agility. 

She  is  a  Roman-nosed  or  aquiline-beaked 
beast,  a  Chester  White  or  a  White  Minorca,  with 
a  sad  expression  and  golden  eyes.  Her  voice  is  a 
rather  monotonous  contralto  with  a  lovely  reedy 
quality,  somewhat  sharpened  by  constant  use 
and  asthmatic  bronchitis,  and  as  she  has  not  had 
time  to  shave  since  the  latter  part  of  last  May  or 
the  early  part  of  last  June  she  is  covered  with  a 
growth  of  fur  of  about  the  consistency  and  color 
of  the  doormat  at  the  back  door,  made  out  of  the 
discarded  rag  carpet  from  the  maid's  room. 

She  is  a  very  engaging  animal,  indeed,  and 
bids  fair  to  become  a  rival  to  the  pigs  in  my  af 
fections. 

She  is  a  buck-jumper  and  her  late  owner  could 
not  keep  her  in  the  pasture.  He  said  that  he  tried 
everything.  He  had  hobbled  her  front  feet  to 
gether;  he  had  fastened  a  shingle  to  her  forehead; 
he  had  fastened  a  pole  by  means  of  a  cunningly 
devised  arrangement  of  surcingle  and  martingale 
so  that  it  projected  several  feet  beyond  her  nose. 


A  Paragon  83 

But  all  to  no  purpose;  and  as  a  last  hope  he  had 
put  her  in  a  pasture  that  was  bounded  on  three 
sides  by  the  river  and  on  the  fourth  by  the  dis 
trict  schoolhouse.  He  knew  she  would  not  try 
the  river  and  he  felt  sure  that  she  was  safe.  But 
to  his  amazement  she  jumped  over  the  school- 
house  and  galloped  home. 

I  could  scarcely  believe  this,  but  he  assured 
me  it  was  a  fact,  and  as  he  is  a  man  of  unimpeach 
able  veracity,  and  as  he  offered  to  take  me  down 
and  show  me  the  schoolhouse  and  also  the  river, 
I  felt  that  his  story  must  be  true. 

Then  again  this  particular  animal  was  healthy 
and  free  from  disease  to  an  extraordinary  and 
amazing  degree.  Why,  according  to  the  owner, 
during  his  ownership  she  had  been  free  from  Bots, 
Farcy,  Glanders,  Sweeny,  Thumps,  and  Scratches; 
that  she  never  suffered  from  Grease  Heel,  Whis 
tling,  or  Heaves;  that  she  had  been  immune  from 
Springhalt,  Wind  Puffs,  Splints,  Spavin,  either 
Bone  or  Bog,  Shoe  Boils,  Wolf  Teeth,  Thrush, 
or  Trichinosis;  that  she  was  a  stranger  to  Roup, 
Pip,  Bumblefoot,  Thoroughpin,  Coffin-joint 
Lameness,  or  Hollow  Horn;  that  she  was  well- 
mannered  and  neither  bit,  kicked,  nor  crowded 
in  the  stall,  and  was  neither  a  halter-puller  nor  a 
tail-hugger.  In  short,  but  for  her  acrobatic  tal 
ents,  she  was  a  most  unusually  quiet  and  reliable 
animal. 


84        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Now,  under  these  circumstances  what  could  I 
have  done,  as  a  reasonable  man,  but  buy  this 
paragon?  There  seemed  nothing  left  for  me  to 
do,  and  I  closed  the  bargain. 

I  was  not  entirely  new  to  sheep,  nor  were 
sheep  new  to  me.  Years  and  years  ago,  when  I 
was  a  boy  of  twelve,  my  father  had  two  female 
sheep  —  ewes,  I  believe.  One  a  rather  venerable 
specimen,  a  veteran  of  many  seasons;  the  other 
in  the  first  flush  of  early  womanhood,  or  rather 
ewehood. 

These  ewes  freshened  or  —  ah  —  eh  —  came  in, 
or  —  eh  —  farrowed  (that  is  the  word,  I  knew 
I  should  get  it),  in  the  latter  part  of  March.  The 
old  lady  ewe  produced  twin  lambs,  and  promptly 
died  of  the  effort.  The  young  female  foaled  one 
ewe  lamb  that  died  at  birth. 

This  left  us  with  twin  lambs  and  a  juvenile 
aunt  that  refused  to  allow  them  to  nurse.  She 
was  ill-mannered,  unreasonable,  and  even  vio 
lent  in  her  refusal.  She  struggled,  kicked,  butted, 
and  blatted  vigorously.  So  my  father  climbed 
into  the  pen  and  showed  me  how  easy  it  was  to 
hold  the  unwilling  nurse.  It  did  seem  easy  when 
he  did  it.  He  was  a  man  of  thirty-five,  weighing 
over  two  hundred,  and  had  a  grip  of  iron.  I  had 
felt  it  on  my  collar  occasionally  and  knew  just 
how  like  iron  it  was. 

Then,  after  giving  a  sort  of  clinic  or  demon- 


Catch-As-Catch-Can  85 

stration,  he  told  me  to  do  it  three  times  a  day 
until  further  notice. 

I  do  not  believe  any  boy  had  a  more  strenu 
ous,  embattled  month  than  I  had  with  that  vi 
cious,  desperate,  ravening  wolf  of  a  female  sheep. 
And  yet  such  was  my  sense  of  duty,  inspired  by 
my  fear  of  that  iron  grip  on  my  collar,  that  three 
times  a  day  I  tightened  my  "galluses,"  spit  on 
my  hands,  and  went  forth,  or  rather  "in,"  to 
slaughter,  "  resolved  to  sell  my  life  as  dearly  as 
possible,"  to  quote  from  a  page  of  my  then  fa 
vorite  author,  one  Beadle. 

And  three  times  a  day  after  a  titanic  struggle 
I  succeeded  in  holding  her  until  the  diminutive, 
thankless  orphans  were  full  fed.  I  say  thankless, 
because  those  ridiculous  midgets  actually  butted 
me  and  constantly  rooted  valiantly  for-  Auntie. 
Why,  /  could  understand  just  what  they  said. 

"Baa-ah-reak  his  baa-ah-slats  in-baa,  Auntie, 
Baa-ah-utt  him  in  the  baa-ah-elly, 
Baa-ah-ust  his  baa-ah-ack,  Auntie." 

And  Auntie  did  her  level  best,  but  I  held  her, 
although  she  weighed  about  ninety  pounds  and 
I  a  short  eighty. 

After  a  month  father  decided  that  the  con 
stant  repairs  to  my  clothing  were  more  than  he 
could  stand,  and  we  began  to  feed  the  twins  from 
a  bottle,  and  my  martyrdom  ceased. 


86        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

And  yet,  like  all  martyrdoms,  it  served  a  pur 
pose.  For  when  I  went  back  among  my  friends  I 
found  that  I  could  throw  with  ease  boys  several 
years  older  and  half  as  large  again  as  I.  Talk  of 
intensive  training!  Why,  if  I  had  continued  tus 
sling  with  that  sheep  a  few  years,[Christol,  Miller, 
Bauer,  Strangler  Lewis,  Cyclone  Burns,  Ameri- 
cus,  and  even  the  late  Frank  Gotch  might  never 
have  been  heard  of  in  mat  circles,  except  as 
second-raters. 

We  kept  the  twin  lambs  for  several  months, 
and  taught  them  many  engaging  and  cute  tricks. 
They  were  named  Horatius  and  Helena.  Hora- 
tius  earned  his  name,  which  was  at  first  Willie, 
by  his  ability  to  hold  the  bridge  without  any  as 
sistance  from  Spurius  Lartius,  although  a  Ram- 
nian  proud,  or  from  strong  Herminius  of  Titian 
blood. 

I  had  taught  him  to  mount  our  high  front 
steps  and  from  this  Alpine-like  eminence  to  defy 
any  caitiff  to  cross  the  moat.  These  expressions 
are  perhaps  a  bit  incongruous,  but  show  that  I 
have  read  widely  if  not  very  deeply. 

It  was  to  this  acquired  accomplishment  that 
he  owed  his  banishment,  for  on  one  memora 
ble  day  he  soaked  my  venerable,  universally  re 
spected,  God-fearing  great-uncle,  Gilman  Smith, 
one  in  the  diaphragm,  and  sent  him  flying  down 
the  steps  endwise,  amid  a  cloud  of  green  corn  and 


Great-Uncle  Oilman  87 

a  market-basket,  with  which  he  had  generously 
meant  to  endow  our  family. 

Great-uncle  Oilman  was,  fortunately,  not  seri 
ously  hurt,  and  after  kind  hands  had  assisted  him 
to  his  feet,  and  vigorous  but  skilful  hands  had  ex 
humed  his  head  from  the  adhesive  ruins  of  his 
venerable  and  respectable  stove-pipe  hat,  and  his 
bleeding  nose  had  been  stanched  and  his  broad 
cloth  coat  carefully  brushed,  he  was  nearly  as 
good  as  new  save  for  what  seemed  to  me  a  most 
inexplicable,  ungenerous,  and  unreasonable  prej 
udice  against  Horatius  and  Helena. 

And  so  the  edict  went  forth  and  I  had  to  sell 
my  pets.  We  children  all  cried  when  the  man 
came  to  take  them  away.  Even  Mother  cried. 

Father,  who  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  and  a 
most  delightful  irreverence  for  sacred  things,  in 
cluding  Great-uncle  Gilman  Smith,  nearly  died 
laughing  over  our  graphic  description  of  our 
venerable  great-uncle's  meteoric  descent.  I  really 
think  he  was  as  sorry  as  the  rest  of  us  when 
Horatius  and  Helena  were  taken  away. 

So,  as  I  have  said  several  times,  I  bought 
the  animal,  paid  for  her  in  advance,  to  ensure 
prompt  delivery,  and  now  have  her  on  my  prem 
ises  at  the  end  of  a  strong  steel  chain  twenty 
feet  in  length.  I  feel  quite  certain  that,  despite 
her  grasshopper  abilities,  she  cannot  possibly 
bound  skyward  twenty  feet  with  sufficient  mo- 


88        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

men  turn  to  pull  out  the  picket  pin.  So  far  my 
judgment  has  been  correct,  and  she  passes  her 
time  in  tripping  up  peaceful  wayfarers  and  call 
ing  for  help  when  inextricably  entangled  in  the 
hydrangeas. 

Saturday,  May  4,  191-.  The  ploughman  arrived 
this  morning  just  as  I  had  finished  my  stable 
work  and  had  tethered  my  solitary  sheep  in  the 
lush  grasses  of  the  tennis  court. 

"  No  other  sheep  was  near, 
The  lamb  was  all  alone, 
And  by  a  slender  cord 
Was  tethered  to  a  stone." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  this  lamb  was  tethered  to  a 
picket  pin  by  a  steel  chain  that  would  have  held 
a  wild  bull  of  Bashan  or  a  rampaging  rhinoceros. 
I  had  made  my  first  experiment  with  a  slender 
cord,  and  as  a  result  had  spent  an  hour  chasing 
that  infernal  sheep  over  the  entire  neighborhood, 
and  I  find  that  I  am  not  as  agile  as  when 

"Leste  et  joyeux  je  montais  six  etages 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans." 

I  really  think  that  my  long  and  soul-shaking  race 
with  my  pigs  the  day  they  arrived  did  n't  do  me 
any  lasting  good. 

So  when  the  ploughman  plodded  his  weary  way 
into  my  yard  and  desired  information  as  to  where 
he  should  cast  off,  I  gave  him  the  desired  inf orma- 


The  Ploughman  89 

tion,  and  did  not,  as  I  had  intended,  offer  to  hold 
the  plough  or  drive  the  horses. 

At  noon  I  was,  as  usual,  in  a  hurry  and  rushed 
through  my  dinner,  fed  my  pigs,  which  are  really 
coming  along  wonderfully,  moved  my  sheep  to 
another  part  of  a  still  virgin  lawn  and  hurried  to 
my  office  without  examining  the  ploughing.  I 
did  notice,  however,  that  he  had  fed  his  horses 
with  hay  and  oats  on  one  of  the  lawns  that  was 
not  to  be  ploughed,  and  that  they  had  pawed 
up  bushels  of  turf  and  had  scattered  hay  over 
the  premises,  broadcast. 

I  was  tempted  to  raise  my  hands  to  heaven  and 
profanely  to  demand  why,  in  the  name  of  every 
thing  sacred,  any  man  knowing  enough  to  drive 
a  team  of  horses, P  which  requires  skill  and  com 
mon  sense,  to  hold  a  plough  and  direct  it  across 
the  landscape,  an  act  requiring  a  keen  sense  of 
orientation,  did  n't  have  sense  enough  to  refrain 
from  pasturing  a  pair  of  horses  weighing  a  ton 
apiece  on  an  adjacent  lawn,  which  he  must  have 
known  was  the  apple  of  my  eye  and  showed 
plainly  that  it  had  been  rolled,  watered,  and 
mowed  to  the  condition  of  green  velvet? 

But  I  was  in  a  hurry.  A  real  client  was  await 
ing  me.  I  needed  his  fee  to  pay  the  ploughman. 
Ploughmen  were  rare  and  expensive  birds.  I 
knew  that  an  altercation  with  him  when  the 
work  was  half  done  would  result  in  a  protracted 


90        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

hunt  for  a  new  ploughman  whom  I  might  be  un 
able  to  find,  and  I  could  not  look  forward  with 
any  degree  of  pleasure  to  a  month  spent  in  spad 
ing  up  that  lawn. 

And  so  I  swallowed  my  dinner,  swallowed  my 
indignant  resentment,  and  hastened  back  to  my 
client.  When  I  returned  that  night  I  found  the 
lawns  ploughed,  the  horses  and  the  ploughman 
gone,  and  hay,  grain,  and  stubble  scattered  over 
my  premises. 

I  also  found  that  in  his  desire  for  good  measure 
he  had  ploughed  several  furrows  over  a  neigh 
bor's  line,  there  being  no  boundary  fences,  and  the 
neighbor  —  ordinarily  a  man  of  equable  temper 
and  genial  disposition  —  criticizing  the  matter 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth  in  tones  that  could 
readily  have  been  heard  for  a  mile  and  a  half,  and 
before  I  had  my  supper  I  was  obliged  to  incur  ob 
ligations  to  re-sod  the  ploughed  strip  of  his  land 
and  to  make  everything  shipshape. 

I  did  not  blame  him  a  bit.  It  did  me  good  to 
hear  him  swear  and  threaten  to  do  awful  things 
to  the  ploughman.  I  hope  he  will  do  just  as  he 
said  he  would.  I  have  faith  to  believe  he  will, 
if  one  may  place  any  dependence  upon  profanity 
when  delivered  out  of  the  corner  of  one's  mouth. 

At  all  events,  my  tennis  court  and  croquet 
ground  have  disappeared  under  parallel  lines 
of  freshly  turned  earth.  Where  for  several  sea- 


The  Post-Hole  Digger  91 

sons  the  fretful  sound  of  children  (neighbors' 
children,  for  my  own  never  used  the  ground),  in 
raucous  dispute  over  the  innocent  game  of  cro 
quet,  prevailed  to  such  an  extent  that  we  had  to 
go  out  frequently  and  threaten  to  fire  them  off 
the  reservation  if  peace  did  not  immediately 
dawn,  the  man  with  the  hoe,  the  rake,  the  spade, 
the  sprinkler,  and  the  pruning-hook  is  to  come 
into  his  own,  and  the  wilderness  is  to  blossom  like 
a  rose. 

Sunday,  May  5,  191-.  To-day  is  cool;  rather  too 
cool,  but  with  a  cloudless  sky  and  no  wind.  The 
doctor  was  called  away  and  could  not  take  me 
out  to  buy  a  cow.  One  more  week  of  exorbitant 
milk  prices.  It  has  been  a  great  day  to  work 
around  the  barn  and  I  improved  the  occasion  to 
build  an  outdoor  pen  for  my  pigs.  This  only  re 
quired  six  posts  to  fence  in  a  large  yard  between 
my  barn  and  the  back  fence.  I  had  borrowed  a 
post-hole  digger,  and  as  the  frost  is  all  out  of  the 
ground  I  dug  the  holes  in  about  an  hour. 

As  a  post-hole  digger  is  a  sort  of  enormous 
gimlet  or  gigantic  auger  which  is  driven  into  the 
ground  by  a  powerful  rotary  movement  of  the 
operator,  which  is  accomplished  by  a  violent 
twist  of  the  body,  I  found  myself  at  the  end  of  the 
hour  with  an  almost  unconquerable  tendency  to 
run  around  myself  or  to  revolve  upon  my  own 


92        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

axis,  something  like  the  feeling  a  pinwheel  must 
have  when  in  full  blaze. 

This  feeling  was  so  strong  that  I  was  forced  to 
give  up  work  for  the  day  and  to  sit  down  and 
watch  the  landscape  revolve.  It  got  monotonous 
after  a  while  and  after  an  hour  or  two  the  im 
pression  wore  off. 

I  imagine  that  to-morrow  I  shall  feel  like  a 
wind-twisted  sapling.  Anyway,  the  post-holes 
are  dug,  which  is  a  relief. 

Monday,  May  6,  191-.  Birds  are  arriving  faster 
than  I  can  count  them.  Have  seen  no  golden 
robins  yet.  It  is  a  bit  early  for  them.  The  plum 
and  cherry  trees  and  the  red  maples  are  in  blos 
som  and  alive  with  bees  and  there  is  a  hum  in  the 
air  that  speaks  of  an  early  season. 

My  sheep  is  gradually  losing  her  fear  of  me.  I 
was  afraid  that  some  things  I  said  about  sheep 
the  other  day  while  I  was  in  full  cry  after  her 
might  have  prejudiced  her  against  me.  But  evi 
dently  she  is  of  a  trusting  and  forgiving  nature 
or  stupid.  Had  any  one  said  the  things  to  me  that 
I  said  to  and  about  her,  it  would  have  been  a  long 
time  before  full  forgiveness  came,  if  indeed  it 
ever  did. 

At  all  events,  I  will  meet  her  halfway.  That  is 
the  best  I  can  do  under  the  circumstances.  But 
I  will  keep  her  securely  tied  for  a  while  at  least. 


Metes  and  Bounds  93 

Tuesday,  May  7,  191-.  All  the  spare  lime  I  could 
take  from  the  office  was  devoted  to  re-sodding 
my  neighbor's  strip.  It  is  a  longer  and  harder  job 
than  I  thought  it  would  be,  and  made  no  easier 
from  the  fact  that  his  comments  as  the  work  pro 
ceeds  are  not  as  encouraging  as  they  might  be.  I 
will  never  again  consent  to  forego  the  luxury  of 
a  line  fence.  There  should  be  a  law  to  compel  one 
whether  neighbors  want  one  or  not. 

Wednesday,  May  8, 191-.  My  wife  has  been  taking 
quite  an  interest  in  the  sheep.  Has  named  her 
Betty  and  has  petted  her  a  good  bit.  Sheep  and 
lambs  seem  affectionate  animals  and  one  becomes 
fond  of  them  quite  readily.  My  wife  did.  To-day 
she  somehow  appears  to  have  acquired  a  dislike 
to  Betty  in  the  few  hours  between  the  time  when 
I,  having  wrought  blisteringly  with  a  rake,  hoe, 
and  shovel  on  my  neighbor's  strip,  fed  hens,  pigs, 
and  sheep,  and  securely  fastened  the  latter  on  the 
lawn  directly  in  front  of  the  house,  left  for  my 
office,  and  the  time  when  I  hurried  back,  intent 
on  throwing  aside  my  coat  and  raking  smooth  a 
bed  for  carrots. 

It  was  warm  and  pleasant  when  I  left.  A  song 
sparrow  with  a  black  necktie  was  singing  on  the 
top  of  the  grape  arbor.  Some  blackbirds  were  fol 
lowing  the  lines  of  furrows,  pecking  and  chat 
tering  industriously.  A  pair  of  wee  creepers  were 


94        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

climbing  the  trunk  of  an  apple  tree  and  sound 
ing  their  tiny  trumpets,  and  really,  much  as  I 
love  the  swivel  chair  by  the  battered  rolltop  in 
the  window,  and  the  view  of  the  fine  old  square 
with  its  old  white  church,  its  square,  white,  three- 
storied  houses,  its  court-  and  town-house  with 
its  white  pillars  and  its  blind  goddess,  its  beauti 
ful  marble  bandstand,  the  work  of  French  and 
Bacon,  I  really  hated  to  leave  my  farm. 

And  when  I  learned  of  the  astonishing  antics 
of  the  wife  of  my  bosom,  a  discreet  and  almost 
middle-aged  woman,  a  church  member,  and  long 
its  organist,  a  member  of  uplift  clubs,  I  regretted 
more  than  ever  that  I  had  not  remained. 

As  a  sort  of  neighborhood  pageant  it  was  said 
to  have  been  most  unique  and  unusually  enter 
taining.  It  had  been  unrolled  (I  think  that  is 
the  proper  term  for  the  production  of  pageants. 
Yes,  I  am  quite  sure  of  it.  One  unfurls  banners, 
but  unrolls  pageants  and  curtains  and  sheet  mu 
sic)  just  as  the  young  and  beautiful  teachers  of 
the  seminary  and  irreverent  young  misses  with 
books  under  their  arms,  and  milk  carts  and  gro 
cery  motors,  and  mail  carriers,  and  men  in  white 
trousers  and  blouses  pushing  handcarts  loaded 
with  pails  of  paint,  were  going  gayly  to  their  vari 
ous  tasks,  that  my  wife  broke  the  trammels  of  a 
life  dedicated  to  respectability  and  good  works, 
surprised  herself,  and  scandalized  her  friends,  and 


Ground  and  Lofty  95 

on  an  open  and  velvet  lawn  performed  evolutions 
and  antics  that  placed  her  at  once  in  a  very  high 
class  as  an  acrobat. 

You  will  remember  that  I  had  securely  tethered 
Betty  on  the  lawn.  For  a  while  she  fed  con 
tentedly,  but  became  lonesome  and  bleated.  At 
once  my  wife  came  out  with  a  pan  of  apple  parings 
as  a  special  entree  for  Betty.  As  she  stepped  out 
on  the  lawn,  a  friend  carrying  an  umbrella  (a 
passing  cloud  had  sprinkled  a  bit)  came  into  the 
yard  to  speak  to  her.  It  was  evident  that  Betty 
had  never  seen  an  umbrella  before,  for  she  in 
stantly  dashed  for  the  barn  like  a  streak  of  light 
ning,  and  as  my  wife  stood  watching  her  flight 
in  astonishment,  the  steel  chain  sweeping  the 
lawn  like  the  minute  hand  of  a  grandfather's 
clock,  with  the  utmost  velocity  picked  up  that 
wondering  lady,  pan,  apple  parings,  and  all,  and 
flipped  her  into  the  air  like  the  small  boy  at  the 
end  in  a  game  of  snap-the-whip. 

When  she  had  been  assembled  and  fastened 
together  by  kind  and  gentle  hands  and  helped 
back  into  the  house  and  brushed  and  comforted, 
it  was  found  that  she  was  unhurt.  And  yet  when 
I  came  home,  heard  the  story,  and  laughed  at 
her,  she  became  very  indignant  and  really  would 
have  nothing  to  say  to  me. 

And  this  is  the  woman  who  only  two  short 
weeks  ago  laughed  herself  almost  into  convul- 


96        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

sions  when  I  sustained  an  almost  fatal  fall  on 
the  muddy  driveway,  while  chasing  my  pigs. 
Verily  how  true  the  saying,  "It  makes  a  differ 
ence  whose  ox  is  gored." 

And  I  had  practically  spoiled  a  fairly  good  suit 
and  had  been  soaked  to  the  skin  and  sorely 
abraded  by  gravel  stones,  and  she  was  absolutely 
unhurt  and  had  lost  only  the  apple  parings,  which 
the  sheep  afterwards  ate  with  great  relish,  and 
her  dignity  (or  at  least  a  part  of  it,  and  she  has 
plenty  left)  which  nobody  particularly  cares  to 
claim. 

My  peas  are  growing  finely.  I  really  cannot 
tell  at  this  stage  just  which  are  the  giants  and 
which  the  dwarfs.  If  they  are  not  cut  down  in 
some  untimely  fashion  as  by  the  escape  of  the 
sheep  or  pigs,  a  few  weeks'  growth  will  tell  the 
story. 

The  loss  of  my  plan  of  the  garden  is  very  un 
fortunate.  It  is  a  bad  thing  to  be  absent-minded. 
I  really  hope  I  have  not  unwittingly  attached  it 
to  some  deed  of  realty.  That  might  lead  to  most 
unfortunate  results. 

Thursday,  May  9,  191-.  I  made  application  for 
admission  to  the  local  Grange  some  time  ago.  I 
met  a  committee  of  three  to-day  to  see  if  they 
would  recommend  my  admission. 

Much  to  my  surprise  and  rather  to  my  confu- 


A  Rejected  Candidate  97 

sion  they  declined  to  recommend  me.  I  asked  the 
reason  and  they  said  I  was  not  a  real  farmer,  but 
an  imitation.  I  think  the  word  "cheap"  was  pre 
fixed  to  the  word  "imitation,"  which  seemed  to 
me  uncalled  for  and  incorrect.  So  far  I  have  found 
that  my  experience  as  an  amateur  farmer  has 
been  anything  but  cheap. 

I  reminded  them  that  their  actual  membership 
included  storekeepers,  mechanics,  poultrymen, 
beekeepers,  milliners,  dry-goods  men,  restaurant 
keepers,  professional  men,  undertakers,  plain 
and  fancy  justices  of  the  peace  and  quorum,  bar 
bers,  manicures,  veterinary  surgeons,  shoemak 
ers,  retired  gentlemen,  bachelor  maids,  legal 
voters  of  both  sexes,  police  and  constables,  se 
lectmen,  fence-viewers  and  pound-keepers. 

They  could  not  deny  that,  but  showed  some 
resentment  over  the  fact  that  I  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  giving  my  produce  to  my  personal 
friends,  and  they  departed  without  giving  me 
any  encouragement. 

I  felt  a  good  deal  discouraged  over  the  result, 
but  endeavored  to  be  philosophical.  It  was  not 
the  first  time  I  had  been  rebuffed  in  my  efforts  to 
join  societies. 

My  charming  personality  had  no  effect  appar 
ently.  I  think  a  certain  irreverence  that  I  had 
shown  in  my  writings  toward  certain  sacred 
things,  such  as  secret  societies,  local  dignitaries, 


98        The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

and  politicians,  had  for  years  militated  against 
my  success  as  a  public  favorite. 

It  reminded  me  very  amusingly  of  what  oc 
curred  to  me  a  good  many  years  ago. 

Exeter  was  then,  and  for  a  long  time  prior 
thereto  had  been,  a  flourishing  country  town  and 
for  an  equal  time  had  flourished  without  the  aid, 
countenance,  and  supervision  of  a  board  of  trade. 

I  had  just  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  my 
being  let  loose  to  prey  upon  an  innocent  country 
community  was  in  a  measure  coincident  with  the 
organization  of  a  board  of  trade. 

My  own  experience  in  the  active  practice  of 
my  profession  had  not  been  particularly  encour 
aging  to  me  or  gratifying  to  my  friends  or  clients, 
particularly  the  latter.  The  few  cases  I  had  man 
aged  to  secure  had  been  uniformly  mismanaged 
and  my  clients  had  been  put  to  serious  expense 
and  much  mental  stress;  and  the  semi-occasional 
opportunity  I  had  of  spreading  legal  knowledge 
abroad,  in  the  way  of  advice  to  clients,  had  re 
sulted  in  dire  and  unexpected  disaster  to  those 
fatuous  individuals  who  had  relied  upon  it. 

Indeed,  it  had  got  to  the  point  that  whenever 
I  heard  a  step  on  the  stairs  leading  to  my  office,  I 
felt  a  sudden  hollowness  in  my  vitals  in  fear  that 
the  comer  might  be  some  one  I  had  advised 
before. 

And  so  my  reputation  as  a  lawyer,  when  meas- 


The  Board  of  Trade,  Salute!  99 

ured  by  the  ordinary  standard  of  success,  had  not 
been  even  respectable.  It  had,  indeed,  occasioned 
some  remarks  of  a  deprecatory  and  uniformly 
profane  nature.  But  an  older  and  successful 
lawyer  said,  when  he  had  got  me  nonsuited  in  a 
case,  "Cheer  up,  old  man,  you  cannot  always 
win;  some  one  must  get  licked."  As  up  to  that 
time  that  "some  one"  had  always  been  I  and 
my  client,  I  did  not  derive  a  vast  amount  of 
cheer  and  encouragement  from  the  remark. 

At  that  time,  as  I  said,  the  Exeter  Board  of 
Trade  was  organized  and  incorporated.  To  one 
who  had  been  a  resident  of  Exeter  for  years 
it  would  seem  incredible  that  for  so  many  gen 
erations  the  vast  enterprises  could  have  flour 
ished  that  had  been  so  successfully  managed  and 
financed  without  the  guiding  hand  of  a  board  of 
trade. 

That  the  alewife  industry  could  have  existed, 
with  its  yearly  clubfest,  when  every  able-bodied 
citizen  and  dweller  took  down  from  the  rafters 
his  trusty  dip-net,  exhumed  his  rubber  boots,  and 
lit  out  for  the  mud-flats  of  Salt  River  to  beat, 
scoop  up,  and  barrel  a  few  cartloads  of  spawning 
fish,  each  one  of  which  contained  a  few  billion 
needle-like  bones  and  little  else. 

That  the  sawmill  industry  could  have  existed, 
with  its  single  up-and-down  saw  running  inter 
mittently  for  six  weeks  each  spring;  that  the 


100      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

vast  coal  industry  and  salt-fish  carrying  trade 
with  Portsmouth,  requiring  a  fleet  of  one  flat- 
bottomed  boat  containing  a  leg-of-mutton  sail, 
a  pair  of  sweeps,  a  half-dozen  push-poles,  a  jug 
of  New  England  rum,  and  a  crew  of  three  men 
considerably  under  its  cheering  influence,  could 
have  kept  out  of  bankruptcy. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  undoubted  financial 
prosperity  of  these  industries,  it  was  deemed 
wise  to  instigate,  organize,  and  perpetrate  a  board 
of  trade,  and  I  was  asked  to  join,  and  from  a 
praiseworthy  intention  to  aid  in  whatever  ap 
peared  to  be  for  the  welfare  of  my  native  town 
I  willingly  consented  to  allow  my  name  to  be 
proposed. 

I  did  not  attend  the  first  meeting  because  I  was 
told  by  the  zealous  patriot  who  was  soliciting 
recruits  that  before  I  could  enter  the  charmed 
circle  my  credentials  must  be  presented  in  due 
form,  and  must  pass  the  Rubicon  of  a  committee 
especially  appointed  for  the  purpose  of  separating 
the  sheep  from  the  goats. 

I  was  also  informed  that  all  the  really  great 
lawyers  of  the  town  were  to  become  members  of 
the  organization,  and  I  naturally  felt  the  flatter 
ing  distinction  of  being  in  good  company. 

I  was  very  much  gratified  to  find  that  I  was 
admitted  to  membership,  and  very  much  amazed 
to  find  that  the  eminent  lawyers  were  rejected, 


Young  Robins  101 

and  upon  inquiry  found  that  objection  had  been 
raised  to  the  admission  of  lawyers  to  an  exclu 
sively  business  association,  but  upon  my  friends' 
assurance  that  I  was  really  no  lawyer,  but  at  the 
best  only  an  imitation,  I  was  voted  in  amid 
much  applause  of  a  purely  ironical  nature. 

Of  course  I  never  qualified  as  a  member  after 
that. 

Friday,  May  10,  191-.  This  morning  I  planted 
carrots,  beets,  and  potatoes.  I  am  told  that  frosts 
may  cut  down  my  potatoes.  However,  I  am  ready 
to  take  a  chance.  I  am  sure  that  song  sparrow  is 
going  to  be  a  fixture  here  until  fall. 

A  pair  of  robins  have  built  on  the  low  branch 
of  a  spreading  spruce  tree  in  front  of  the  house.  I 
have  been  watching  them  for  several  days.  To 
day  I  got  a  chance  to  look  into  the  nest.  I  could 
do  so  without  bending  the  branch.  There  were 
three  eggs.  There  are  few  things  pleasanter  than 
to  see  eggs  warm  in  a  nest,  and  to  realize  the 
pleasure  you  are  to  have  in  watching  the  gradual 
development  of  the  young,  from  naked,  bluish 
nestlings,  raising  their  heads  on  wabbly,  weak 
necks,  to  strong,  mottled-breasted  birds,  follow 
ing  their  parents  about  the  garden  and  eating  on 
an  average  one  earthworm  a  minute  from  early 
dawn  until  long  after  sunset. 

The  old  bird  has  got  so  used  to  me  that  she 


102      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

makes  but  very  little  fuss  when  I  approach  the 
nest. 

Saturday,  May  11, 191-.  I  intended  taking  a  half- 
day  off  to-day  and  to  put  in  some  telling  work  in 
my  garden.  My  peas  have  grown  so  and  the 
weeds  have  developed  to  such  an  extent  that  I 
must  hoe  them.  I  like  hoeing  much  better  than 
post-hole  digging.  With  a  sharp  hoe,  and  the 
ground  of  the  right  consistency,  neither  too  wet 
nor  too  dry,  the  amount  of  work  a  man  can  easily 
do  is  surprising.  I  use  a  long-handled  hoe  so  that 
my  shoulders  may  not  acquire  the  curve  that  is 
not  a  line  of  beauty,  and  I  take  care  not  to  work 
too  steadily.  I  find  that  looking  at  birds  and  occa 
sionally  couching  a  warning  at  a  trespassing  cat 
with  a  jagged  stone  or  a  half  brick,  keeps  my 
work  from  being  too  monotonous,  as  does  the 
exchanging  of  remarks  with  the  passing  populace, 
all  of  whom  seem  very  much  interested  and 
amused  at  my  industry. 

I  was  prevented,  much  to  my  disgust,  from 
spending  the  afternoon  on  my  farm,  and  instead 
had  to  spend  it  in  court  where  the  idiotic  quar 
rels  of  several  Polish  neighbors  were  fought  to  a 
finish  with  the  assistance  of  two  lawyers,  one 
official  interpreter,  and  with  the  entire  crowd  of 
Polish  attendants  volunteering  lingual  assistance. 
It  seemed  a  dreadful  waste  of  time,  especially  as 


Guessing  103 

I  was  wholly  in  the  dark  at  the  end  of  the  trial 
as  to  the  cause  of  the  trouble.  So  having  fined 
several  of  the  attendants  for  contempt  of  court 
in  insisting  on  usurping  my  duties,  and  having 
found  one  of  the  parties  (and  probably  the  wrong 
one)  guilty  and  imposed  a  stiff  sentence,  I  felt 
that  I  had  not  wholly  wasted  my  time. 

Sunday,  May  12,  191-.  Sunday  again.  This  after 
noon  my  friend  the  doctor  came  round  with  his 
motor.  Doc  said  that  apart  from  the  pleasure  of 
my  society  he  was  very  curious  to  be  present  at 
a  cow  trade,  especially  on  the  Sabbath.  He  says 
that  in  his  unregenerate  days  he  has  ofttimes  sat 
up  all  night  playing  poker,  but  he  had  understood 
that  cow  trades  were  things  apart  from  the  usual. 
That  the  amount  of  concentration  necessary  to 
be  a  good  poker  player  is  mere  piffle  when  com 
pared  to  a  trade  in  or  the  purchase  of  cows. 

Accordingly  he  and  his  wife  were  exceedingly 
anxious  to  view  at  close  range  the  mighty  conflict 
of  intellects  that  only  cow  trades  may  demand. 

I  laughed  low  in  my  beard,  or  would  have  had 
not  custom  rendered  a  beard  a  thing  to  marvel  at 
and  loathe,  and  I  climbed  into  the  machine  and 
listened  to  the  marked  sarcasm  of  my  host,  and 
answered  in  kind  the  numerous  suggestions  he 
made  as  to  the  best  method  of  approaching  a  cow 
owner  who  might  be  persuaded  to  part  with  her 


104      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

at  an  exorbitant  price.  Every  time  we  would  pass 
a  field,  pasture  or  farmyard  containing  cows, 
Doc  would  clap  on  the  emergency  brake  and  I 
would  nearly  go  through  the  wind-shield  with  the 
abruptness  of  the  stop. 

Then,  when  I  would  show  no  interest  in  the 
animals  to  which  he  called  my  attention,  and 
which  I  had  seen  before  he  did,  he  would  apos 
trophize  me  roundly  for  my  lack  of  the  true 
sporting  spirit. 

Indeed,  he  showed  so  much  more  interest  than 
I  that  he  personally  entered  the  premises  of 
several  worthy  agriculturists  and  priced  their 
animals.  But  beyond  calling  his  particular  atten 
tion  to  a  meadowlark  and  a  brown  thrush,  or  the 
song  of  a  bridge  pewee  by  the  side  of  a  bubbling, 
gurgling  brook,  I  did  n't  say  a  word,  except  in 
answer  to  his  questions,  about  the  errand  that 
took  us  into  the  country,  which  course  of  treat 
ment  provoked  my  young  friend  to  the  most  cap 
tious  of  criticisms  of  me  as  a  farmer. 

What  did  I  think  he  was  carting  me  through 
the  wilderness  for?  If  I  supposed  he  had  n't 
something  better  to  do  than  to  travel  for  hours 
through  the  forest  primeval  while  I  conversed  on 
nothing  more  serious  or  uplifting  than  the  fee 
ble  peeping  of  a  wall-eyed  and  loose-tailed  fly 
catcher  (this  showed  plainly  that  Doc  knew  birds 
much  better  than  he  pretended)  or  a  brown 


A  Cow  Trade  105 

streak  in  the  air  (another  description  of  a  brown 
thrush,  good  enough  for  the  books),  then  I  had 
better  get  down  to  the  plain  facts  of  the  case, 
which  were  that  he  had  come  out  that  sacred 
afternoon  to  enable  me  to  skin  some  merry  bull- 
whacker  out  of  a  month's  board  in  a  cow  trade, 
and  not  to  spend  the  precious  hours  in  ranting 
about  birds. 

I  smiled  again  enigmatically,  told  Doc  to  give 
me  another  cigarette  and  to  keep  his  weather  eye 
peeled  for  a  real  thoroughbred  warranted  to  give 
two  cans  of  milk  a  day  and  lay  a  dozen  eggs,  sold 
for  no  fault,  kind,  and  an  easy  milker;  and  if  he 
struck  anything  of  that  description  to  call  it  to 
my  attention  and  he  would  see  the  trained  legal 
mind  go  to  the  mat  with  the  mens  conscia  recti 
of  a  New  England  farmer  rich  in  the  traditions  of 
generation  upon  generation  of  Yankee  shrewdness. 

So  Doc,  having  produced  the  cigarette  and  a 
light,  threw  on  the  power  and  we  skimmed  along 
for  some  distance  right  merrily.  It  was  a  beauti 
ful  day,  and  the  woods  presented  every  delicate 
shade  of  green,  from  the  filmy  lace  of  the  birches 
to  the  dark  green  of  the  pines  and  spruces.  We 
passed  through  a  wood  path.  An  oven-bird  was 
calling  "Teacher!  —  Teacher!  —  Teacher!"  A 
jay  called  overhead  and  the  distant  drumming  of 
a  cock  partridge  was  heard  above  the  humming 
of  the  motor. 


106      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

We  emerged  upon  the  main  highway.  At  the 
left  of  the  highway  was  a  farmhouse,  barn  and 
lane  leading  to  the  pasture.  Halfway  down  the 
lane  stood  a  magnificent  animal .  light  red  in 
color  with  a  white  face  and  polished  horns.  Doc 
applied  the  brake  suddenly  and  my  wife  lit  be 
tween  my  shoulders.  This  stopped  her  in  full 
flight,  but  was  rather  a  shock  to  me.  To  cut  off 
the  trajectory  of  a  plump  lady  of  ten  stone  and 
over  is  sometimes,  particularly  when  unexpected, 
a  bit  trying.  I  remonstrated  with  the  doctor  for 
his  abruptness,  and  he  apologized  both  to  me  and 
to  my  wife,  who  was  trying  to  straighten  her  hat 
and  wondering  how  long  it  would  take  to  get  new 
glasses  put  in  the  frame  of  her  spectacles. 

"There!"  said  the  doctor  with  the  utmost  sat 
isfaction.  "There  is  the  handsomest  cow  we  have 
seen  yet,  and  the  largest.  She  ought  to  give  a 
washtubful  at  a  milking.  She  is  either  a  Clydes 
dale  or  a  Percheron.  This  fooling  about  with  a 
little  Jersey  that  gives  a  few  pints  is  all  nonsense. 
If  a  man  wants  a  cow  for  her  milk,  the  more 
milk  he  gets  the  more  money  he  makes.  Now 
don't  say  that  this  one  does  n't  suit  you.  Is  n't 
she  the  handsomest  animal  that  we  have  seen 
to-day?" 

I  admitted  that  the  animal  in  question  was  all 
that  he  said  it  was. 

"Well,  then,"  he  continued,  "hop  right  down 


A  Milch  Steer  107 

and  hunt  up  the  owner  and  start  your  trade." 
And  he  opened  the  door. 

"What  is  the  matter  now?"  he  demanded,  as 
I  made  no  move  to  get  out.  "Won't  this  one  do, 
or  are  you  renigging?  " 

"Considering  that  this  animal  is  a  three-year- 
old  Hereford  steer,  and  that  stock-breeding  sci 
ence  has  as  yet  not  produced  a  milch  steer,  I 
don't  believe  I  care  to  buy  this  particular  animal, 
Doc,"  I  replied. 

Doc  took  a  long  look,  then  forcibly  expressed 
the  conviction  that  he  would  be  damned  and 
started  the  machine  with  a  jerk  that  fully  ex 
pressed  his  feelings. 

Now  the  fact  is  that  I  knew  before  I  started  out 
just  what  I  wanted  and  did  not  propose  to  buy 
anything  else.  I  wanted  a  small  cow,  because,  if 
she  turned  out  to  be  a  kicker,  she  could  not  kick 
me  nearly  as  far  as  a  large,  heavy,  and  more 
muscular  cow,  and  in  the  aggregate  I  could  save 
considerable  time  in  travelling  a  proportionally 
shorter  distance  back  to  finish  milking,  and  of 
course  that  is  a  very  important  consideration. 

Then  again  I  could  more  easily  induce  a  small 
cow  to  step  off  my  foot,  and  that  member  would 
be  less  flattened  and  distorted  than  it  would  be 
with  the  superincumbent  weight  of  an  animal 
weighing  the  greater  part  of  a  ton.  And  the  same 
relative  results  would  obtain  should  the  animal 


108      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

insist  upon  using  my  prostrate  form  as  a  boule 
vard  for  convenient  entrance  to  or  exit  from  her 
stall.  And  so  I  was  determined  to  have  a  small 
cow  for  purely  personal  reasons. 

And  we  had  gone  but  a  short  mile  from  the 
Hereford  steer  before  I  saw  the  cow  I  wanted. 
In  front  of  a  farmhouse  a  number  of  cows  grazed 
by  the  roadside.  There  were  a  couple  of  Holsteins, 
an  unusually  large  and  fine  Ayrshire,  three  old 
Jerseys,  and  a  red  cow  with  the  delicate  muzzle 
and  head  of  a  Jersey  and  the  body  color  of  a 
Guernsey.  She  was  very  small,  but  very  compact. 
Indeed,  by  the  side  of  the  Ayrshire  and  the  big 
Holsteins  she  did  not  look  much  larger  than  a 
goat.  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  old  Billy,  a 
goat  owned  so  many  years  by  the  proprietor  of  the 
Swampscott  House  in  my  boyhood,  and  which 
rejoiced  in  the  name  of  "Old  Asafcetida,"  was 
not  larger  than  this  cow. 

In  obedience  to  my  request  Doc  stopped  the 
machine  and  I  got  down  and  went  to  the  farm 
house.  A  sturdy  man  of  about  my  age  came  out 
whom  I  recognized  as  a  deputy  sheriff.  That  in 
itself  was  against  him,  but  in  all  other  ways  I 
knew  him  to  be  an  exceedingly  square  man.  As 
he  came  out  I  saw  a  sign,  "Cow  for  sale,"  on 
a  corner  of  the  house. 

"Hello,  Mr.  F.",  I  said;  "which  cow  do  you 
want  to  sell?" 


A  Bargain  109 

"The  black-faced  red  cow,"  he  answered. 

"What  is  wrong  with  her?"  I  asked. 

"Her  size,"  he  answered.  "I  want  bigger  cows 
and  more  milk." 

"Is  she  an  easy  milker  and  kind?" 

"Both,"  he  answered. 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"Five  years.  Just  had  her  second  calf." 

"What  is  her  breeding?" 

"Jersey  and  Guernsey,  a  good  combination," 
he  replied. 

"What  do  you  want  for  her?" 

He  told  me  —  a  fair  price. 

"You've  sold  her,"  I  answered. 

"WThen  do  you  want  her?"  he  asked. 

"Within  two  or  three  days." 

I  went  back  to  the  machine.  Doc  was  looking 
at  me  as  if  I  were  a  strange  and  most  amazing 
animal. 

"Well,  for  the  love  of  Mike!"  he  gasped.  "Is 
that  the  way  you  buy  cows?  How  do  you  know 
you  are  not  stuck?"  he  inquired. 

"  Don't  know  yet.  But  I  like  the  looks  of  the  cow 
and  I  know  the  man,  and  he  says  she  is  all  right." 

For  the  second  time  that  afternoon  Doc  ex 
pressed  the  fervent  and  settled  conviction  that 
he  would  be  damned,  and  on  the  way  home  he 
remarked  with  much  feeling  that  he  would  be 
cussed. 


110      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

I  think  the  doctor's  wife  and  mine  were  fully 
as  much  surprised  at  my  promptness  as  he  was, 
but  they  were  not  so  outspoken  and  frank  in 
their  opinions. 

And  so  I  have  bought  my  cow  and  shall  have 
to  get  her  home,  either  by  truck  or  lead  rein. 

Monday,  May  13,  191-.  Rain!  rain!!  rain!!! 
rain! ! ! !  the  entire  day.  Not  a  plain  drizzle,  not 
a  series  of  intermittent  showers,  not  a  gentle  and 
steady  downpour,  but  a  pouring,  sluicing,  fu 
rious  downpour.  The  kind  of  rain  that  beats 
through  an  umbrella  as  easily  as  it  would  go 
through  a  ladder.  A  rain  that  chokes  up  the  man 
holes  of  the  sewer  with  a  surging  mass  of  last 
year's  leaves,  sticks,  old  newspapers,  and  all 
sorts  of  rubbish,  and  then  overflows  into  puddles 
a  foot  or  more  deep  and  in  places  where  one  must 
—  absolutely  must  —  pass  in  order  to  get  any 
where. 

There  were  at  least  a  dozen  places  in  my  en 
forced  trip  to  the  office  where  I  went  nearly  to 
my  knees.  After  I  was  well  ducked  I  did  n't 
mind  it  so  much.  When  a  person  cannot  get  any 
wetter  even  if  he  fell  into  the  river,  there  is  a 
sort  of  satisfaction  in  one's  misery. 

I  saw  five  people  fall  prostrate  in  puddles  to 
day  and  gloried  in  it.  There  is  a  supreme  sort  of 
happiness  to  see  people  fall  prostrate  in  the 


Other  People's  Misfortunes  111 

very  puddles  that  you  have  successfully  navi 
gated.  They  look  so  foolish  when  they  scramble 
up  and  slosh  round  for  their  hats  and  grips  float 
ing  down  the  rushing  stream,  and  they  try  hard 
to  make  a  joke  of  it.  You  feel  sure  they  will  not 
catch  cold  because  you  know  they  are  so  furious 
within,  so  boiling  with  rage  that  their  tempera 
ture  is  dangerously  above  normal.  And  you  also 
feel  that  the  thorough  soaking  will  prevent  apo 
plexy. 

So  you  put  your  feet  on  the  gas  heater  that  you 
have  illuminated  for  this  particular  occasion, 
and  hug  yourself  with  delight  when  another  be 
wildered  wayfarer  plunges  in  to  cross  the  ford. 
And  when  you  have  dried  out  sufficiently  to 
make  it  prudent  to  work,  you  sit  in  the  window 
and  alternately  try  to  clear  away  the  pile  of  work 
that  has  accumulated  and  kill  yourself  laughing 
as  another  soaked  and  furious  pilgrim  or  vagrant 
loses  his  footing  and  disappears  to  the  neck. 

I  have  thought  of  little  but  my  cow  since  her 
purchase  yesterday,  and  had  arranged  a  very 
complete  programme  by  which  she  was  to  be 
transferred  with  marked  deftness  into  her  new 
quarters.  But  the  rain  has  merely  postponed  it. 
She  will  keep,  I  trust,  unless  she  gets  drowned 
in  her  pasture.  Well,  the  farmers  have  been  pray 
ing  for  rain  for  weeks  and  it  looks  as  if  they  were 
having  enough.  I  imagine  by  to-morrow  or  next 


112      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

day  they  will  be  shaking  their  heads  despondently 
and  deploring  the  unheard-of  wetness  of  the 
season. 

I  ordered  a  ton  of  hay  by  telephone  this  morn 
ing.  Certainly  it  will  not  be  hauled  to-day,  at 
least  by  telephone.  I  am  afraid  my  arrangement 
of  words  would  cause  a  professor  of  English  to 
suffer  severe  pains. 

Tuesday,  May  14,  191-.  When  I  woke  up  this 
morning  it  was  still  raining,  and  I  have  a  vague 
recollection  of  hearing  it  beating  on  the  piazza 
roof  during  the  night.  When  I  went  out  to  the 
barn  this  morning  I  found  my  pig  yard  a  pool  of 
water  ten  feet  across.  The  pigs  were  safe  and  dry 
in  the  barn  and  evidently  had  not  dared  to  try 
the  vasty  deep.  I  have  no  doubt  that  pigs  can 
swim.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  that  swimming  pigs 
will  cut  their  own  throats  with  the  upward 
thrust  of  their  sharp  forefeet.  Whether  this  is  so 
or  not,  I  decided  not  to  take  a  chance  and  I 
worked  in  the  rain  for  a  half -hour  in  cutting  a 
trench  which  let  the  water  into  my  garden. 

The  sheep  fretted  a  good  deal  at  being  kept  in 
the  barn,  but  as  she  has  a  fleece  about  six  inches 
in  depth  it  would  be  midsummer  before  she 
dried  out  completely. 

Oddly  enough,  in  spite  of  the  rain  which  fell 
steadily  but  much  more  gently  than  yesterday, 


"  Rain,  Rain,  Go  Away  "  113 

there  were  dozens  of  small,  greenish-yellow  war 
blers,  much  draggled  by  the  wet,  but  apparently 
minding  it  not  at  all  as  they  actively  foraged  for 
worms  and  insects,  and  caught  them,  too,  as  I 
saw  by  carefully  watching  them.  They  were  very 
tame,  too,  and  would  come  within  reach  of  me. 
There  seemed  to  be  several  varieties,  some  of 
which  were  strangers  to  me.  And  once  I  was  al 
most  sure  I  saw  a  summer  yellowbird,  but  I  am 
quite  sure  I  was  mistaken.  I  saw  so  many  of  these 
warblers  that  I  decided  that  they  were  members 
of  a  large  flight  going  North. 

My  hens  are  laying  well  now.  Got  nine  eggs 
to-day  in  spite  of  the  rain.  I  let  them  out  to-day. 
Hens  seldom  scratch  in  wet  weather,  but  go 
about  with  their  tails  furled  tightly  and  depressed 
to  shed  the  rain,  and  pick  up  hundreds  of  earth 
worms  and  grubs.  I  wonder  how  my  cow  is  get 
ting  along?  I  had  hoped  before  this  to  be  raising 
my  own  milk  and  cream,  and  possibly  churning 
my  own  butter.  I  wrote  Mr.  F.,  the  deputy 
sheriff,  to-day  that  I  would  come  down  the  first 
pleasant  day.  I  wonder  if  there  will  ever  be  an 
other? 

Wednesday,  May  15,  191-.  Still  rainy  in  streaks. 
Everything  steams.  It  is  impossible  to  light  a 
match  on  any  ordinary  surface.  I  am  glad  I  did 
not  plant  all  my  potatoes.  I  feel  sure  they  would 


114      The  Real  Diary  of  tfie  Worst  Farmer 

have  rotted.  To-day  I  engaged  a  motor-truck  and 
a  man  to  go  with  me  for  my  cow,  which  I  am  sure 
must  have  aged  considerably  since  I  bought  her. 
It  seems  as  if  it  had  been  raining  for  weeks.  The 
river  is  a  freshet  and  every  brook  is  over  its  banks 
as  in  March.  The  blackbirds  are  assembling  in 
small  flocks  again.  This  sometimes  happens  in 
very  wet  weather  and  before  they  have  nested. 
The  flocks  never  become  very  large,  however. 

The  trout  fishermen  are  much  disgusted,  as  the 
high  water  has  spoiled  their  fishing.  It  was  about 
gone,  anyway,  with  the  warm  weather  and  the 
spring  flies  and  bugs.  I  hope  to  bring  my  cow 
home  to-morrow.  The  milkman  brought  in  his 
bill  to-day.  I  must  either  get  that  cow  or  sell  my 
pigs,  and  mighty  soon. 

Thursday,  May  16,  191-.  Pleasant  to-day;  the 
first  time  in  weeks,  it  seems  to  me.  Of  course 
it  may  not  have  been  so  long,  but  when  meas 
ured  by  my  desire  to  do  some  work  on  my  farm, 
and  my  overpowering  desire  to  transport  to  my 
premises  by  cart,  lead  rein,  or  motor-truck, 
one  Jersey-Guernsey  cow,  weight  several  pounds, 
possibly  several  hundred,  safe,  sound,  and  in 
good  milking  condition,  it  seems  months. 

Of  course,  as  to-day  was  the  first  pleasant  day 
for  weeks,  every  person  in  Exeter  and  vicinity, 
having  the  opportunity  to  plunge  into  litigation 


Pettifogging  115 

of  the  fifty-cent  variety,  had  to  come  to  my  of 
fice  for  the  advice  as  to  the  proper  method  to 
proceed.  Now,  I  practice  law  for  a  livelihood  and 
make  a  comfortable  if  rather  close-reefed  liveli 
hood  out  of  the  practice.  But  I  detest  the  small 
details  of  penny-foolish  litigation.  Why  it  is  that 
an  ordinarily  sensible  man,  who  can  be  trusted 
to  do  most  things  well,  who  is  reliable  and  law- 
abiding  and  prudent  and  well-meaning,  will  try 
and  involve  himself  in  a  maze  of  pettifogging 
litigation  is  more  than  I  can  understand. 

Now,  if  the  business  offered  had  amounted  to 
anything,  I  would  have  further  postponed  farm 
and  live-stock  operations,  but  I  made  short  work 
of  these  litigants,  and  those  whom  I  could  n't 
dissuade  from  litigation  I  passed  over  to  younger 
and  more  energetic  lawyers.  I  was  engaged  in 
more  productive  operations. 

At  two  o'clock  my  friend  the  truckman  and 
myself  started  for  the  farmhouse  of  the  deputy 
sheriff.  The  sun  shone,  the  birds  sang,  the  buds 
were  swelling,  the  grass  springing,  all  nature  re 
joicing,  and  seven  miles  away  a  valuable  cross 
bred  cow  was  awaiting  extradition  with  most 
exemplary  patience. 

I  think  the  pleasure  of  any  excursion,  whether 
by  rail,  motor,  horseback,  or  pedestrianism,  de 
pends  in  a  very  great  measure  on  the  object  of 
the  trip,  or  the  fact  that  one  has  an  object.  When 


116      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

younger  I  used  to  ride  horseback  a  great  deal, 
and  I  always  enjoyed  more  the  trip  that  was 
made  with  some  definite  object.  It  might  be  a 
business  trip;  to  try  a  case  before  some  justice  of 
the  peace,  or  to  look  up  a  witness,  to  draw  a  deed 
or  execute  a  will  for  some  client  who  was  unable 
to  come  to  the  office;  or  it  might  be  a  trip  to  dis 
cover  an  oven-bird's  nest,  or  the  golden  color  of 
a  sheet  of  water  coming  over  a  dam  in  the  sun 
light,  or  to  discover  the  reason  why  the  jays 
were  making  such  a  row  in  a  certain  place  in  the 
woods,  or  to  start  an  old  blue  heron  out  of  a  small 
frog-infested  pool  under  the  big  beech  trees  on 
the  Kensington  road. 

And  so  to-day  when  the  truckman,  I,  and  the 
truck  started  out,  I  had  an  object,  and  I  did  not 
feel  that  I  was  in  any  way  wasting  precious  time. 
I  had  telephoned  the  owner  of  the  cow  to  have  her 
ready  and  promised  for  my  part  to  have  my  check 
ready  and  certified.  Under  these  circumstances 
the  man  should  have  had  the  cow  ready  and 
have  been  ready  to  give  us  such  aid  and  counte 
nance  as  he  could.  But  as  a  deputy  sheriff  his 
down-sittings  and  up-risings  were  not  his  own, 
but  the  public's,  and  he  left  word  that  he  had 
been  called  away,  and  that,  upon  the  profert  of 
a  certified  check  for  the  agreed  sum,  I  would  have 
the  right,  title,  and  interest  in  the  cow  aforesaid 
and  aforementioned  in  fee  simple,  and  that  we 


Climbing  a  Fence  117 

could  enter  his  close,  and,  wherever  she  might  be 
situated,  remove  her  at  our  pleasure. 

We  learned  that  the  cow  was  in  the  pasture, 
and  after  handing  over  the  check,  which  was 
examined  word  for  word  and  letter  for  letter, 
we  were  given  letters  of  marque  and  reprisal, 
which  consisted  of  a  rope  halter  and  a  couple  of 
stout  clubs,  and  told  the  way  to  the  pasture. 

Armed  with  the  muniments  of  title  we  pro 
ceeded  blithely  to  the  pasture  and  climbed  the 
fence,  and  here  the  truckman  had  his  first  taste 
of  adventure.  As  he  threw  his  weight  on  the  fence 
the  top  rail  broke  and  he  secured  his  first  fall. 
As  I  was  carefully  negotiating  the  same  barrier 
at  the  time,  I  did  not  see  his  performance  and 
could  not  say  whether  the  fall  was  the  result  of 
a  hammerlock,  half -nelson,  toe-hold,  collar-and- 
elbow,  or  half -scissors.  From  the  natural  position 
the  ordinary  man  takes  in  surmounting  a  pas 
ture  fence  I  should  be  inclined  to  say  it  was  a 
scissors  or  possibly  a  half -scissors  and  hammer- 
lock  combined. 

Judging  from  the  fuss  the  truckman  was  mak 
ing  about  it,  I  am  sure  that  he  did  not  give  a 
hang  as  to  what  kind  of  a  hold  it  was.  Indeed,  his 
monologue  was  so  long  and  so  fervent  and  the 
truckman  appeared  to  be  so  depressed  over  the 
matter  that  I  felt  called  upon  to  soothe  him  with 
apt  quotation: 


118      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

"But,  mother,  as  I  climbed  the  fence,  the  nearest  way  to 

town, 

My  apron  caught  upon  a  stake  and  in  the  dust  sat  down, 
And   covering  with   his   steel-gloved   hands    his   darkly 

mournful  brow, 
'No  more,  there  is  no  more,'  he  said,  'to  lift  the  sword  for 

now.'" 

I  am  afraid  that  I  got  this  quotation  somewhat 
mixed,  but  just  how,  I  cannot  say.  At  all  events, 
my  humanitarian  effort  to  lighten  his  gloom  was 
a  failure,  for  he  merely  snarled,  "Aw!  go  to  hell 
with  your  poetry  and  lemme  alone!"  And  began 
to  rub  his  shin  anew  and  to  make  up  faces  ex 
pressive  of  severe  pain. 

I  then  decided  I  might  try  one  more  quota 
tion  of  a  more  classic  vein  which  might  divert 
his  sad  thoughts,  and  gave  him  one  from  Scott's 
"Marmion": 

"Edmunds  is  down,  my  life  is  reft, 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left." 

"Say!  you,  wotcher  tryin'  to  put  across?"  he 
growled.  "'F  yer  wanter  ketch  yer  damned  old 
cow,  yer  gotter  cut  out  any  more  of  that  stuff. 
See?" 

I  then  decided  that  he  had  no  sense  of  humor 
whatsoever,  and  told  him  to  come  on  and  we 
would  get  to  work  and  finish  up  the  job  once  for 
all,  and  he  slowly  and  limpingly  followed  me, 
rumbling  maledictions  in  his  throat. 

We  found  the  herd  of  cows  but  a  short  distance 


A  Revolving  Cow  119 

away,  grazing  quietly  and  showing  no  fear  of  us. 
They  were  evidently  used  to  kind  treatment,  and 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  walking  up  to  my  small  cow 
and  taking  her  by  the  horns  with  the  owner's 
and  proprietor's  grip.  Perhaps  she  resented  this 
as  an  undesirable,  dangerous,  and  improper  fa 
miliarity,  for  she  swung  her  head  so  violently 
that  in  spite  of  her  comparatively  small  size, 
she  slat  me  a  considerable  distance,  where  I 
landed  in  somewhat  the  position  of  a  small  boy 
after  trying  an  unscientific  cartwheel. 

This  time  the  truckman  showed  more  humor 
ous  appreciation  of  the  affair  than  his  previous 
conduct  had  warranted.  Indeed,  he  laughed  so 
long  and  so  hard  that  I  in  turn  got  a  bit  warm 
and  thought  he  overdid  it.  However,  I  reflected 
that  honors  were  even  and  swallowed  my  feel 
ings.  In  fact  I  essayed  a  smile,  but  I  fancy  it 
was  a  trifle  wry. 

The  next  time  I  approached  my  property  I 
carefully  placed  a  rope  around  her  neck,  and  to 
my  surprise  she  made  no  attempt  to  escape,  but 
allowed  me  to  fasten  the  rope  in  a  loose  hitch  and 
followed  me  as  if  she  approved  the  change  of 
owners,  and  was  really  rather  proud  of  it. 

We  had  no  trouble  until  we  arrived  at  the  barn 
yard  where  we  had  left  the  truck.  We  were  walk 
ing  briskly  and  making  a  good  three  miles  an 
hour  when  she  saw  the  motor.  I  was  ahead,  step- 


120      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

ping  proudly  under  the  impetus  of  possession 
and  of  happy  realization  of  ownership,  when  she 
stopped  abruptly,  snorted,  and  began  to  revolve 
with  great  rapidity.  The  sudden  twitch  of  the 
rope  had  the  effect  of  snapping  me  violently  into 
the  air  and  swinging  me  in  a  huge  circle  of  which 
the  radius  was  composed  of  six  feet  of  me,  two 
feet  of  my  arms  and  clutching  fingers,  six  feet 
of  stout  rope,  and  two  feet  of  the  head  and  neck 
of  the  cow.  In  all  about  twenty  feet  of  radius. 

If  I  am  correct  in  my  recollections,  the  circum 
ference  of  a  circle  is  3.1416+  times  the  diameter. 
Taking  the  diameter  of  the  circle,  of  which  my 
heels  were  marking  the  circumference,  as  forty 
feet  and  leaving  out  the  +  sign,  it  is  sufficient, 
for  the  purposes  of  illustration,  to  prove  mathe 
matically  that  in  one  complete  revolution  I  cov 
ered  a  distance  of  62.832  feet.  It  was  really  more 
than  that,  because  under  immense  centrifugal 
force  I  am  certain  that  my  arms  were  pulled 
several  inches  from  their  sockets. 

I  am  very  glad  that  the  barnyard  was  so  large. 
Had  the  space  been  more  contracted,  I  am  sure 
that  my  flying  heels  might  have  done  as  much 
damage  as  a  falling  derrick.  As  it  was,  I  made 
an  unobstructed  circuit  several  times  before  I 
let  go.  I  did  not  want  to  let  go  and  did  my  best 
to  hold  on.  But  there  is  a  limit  to  one's  grip,  and 
at  about  the  fourth  circuit  I  reached  my  limit  and 


7  landed  in  somewhat  the  position  of  a  small  boy  after 
trying  an  unscientific  cartwheel 


Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot  121 

let  go.  I  did  not  stop  after  I  let  go,  but  continued 
at  a  tangent  for  a  long  distance.  Indeed,  it  was 
the  harrowing  uncertainty  about  the  distance  I 
would  go  and  the  direction  I  would  take,  that 
made  me  try  so  hard  to  hold  on. 

As  I  have  said,  it  was  a  very  large  barnyard 
and  was  surrounded  by  a  very  high  and  strong 
fence,  and  when  I  came  to  a  stop  I  was,  thanks 
to  that  fence,  still  in  the  yard,  and  only  partly 
through  the  fence.  The  cow  had  stopped  revolv 
ing,  and  the  truckman,  the  wife  and  daughter 
of  the  deputy  sheriff,  and  several  summer  board 
ers  from  the  city,  who  had  come  out  on  the 
piazza  to  view  the  proceedings,  were  very  much 
interested,  and  so  amused  that  they  collapsed 
into  their  chairs  and  hammocks. 

I  was  dizzy  from  my  rapid  circuit  of  the  bases 
and  felt  much  as  a  horse-chestnut  must  feel  when 
swung  by  a  small  boy  in  rapid  circles  at  the  end 
of  a  string,  and  just  before  it  is  thrown  over  a 
telegraph  wire. 

Little  by  little  I  recovered  my  poise,  and  af 
fecting  not  to  notice  the  summer  boarders  and 
the  family  of  the  deputy  sheriff,  I  told  the  truck 
man  to  catch  the  cow,  which  he  accomplished 
without  difficulty.  Then  we  placed  a  rope  around 
her  horns,  passed  it  forward  and  around  an  up 
right  post  in  the  forward  part  of  the  truck  and 
began  to  pull  her  into  the  truck.  She  held  back 


The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

and  tried  to  pull  away,  but  we  snubbed  the  rope 
around  the  post  and  felt  sure  that  unless  her 
head  pulled  off  we  had  her.  Still,  I  wanted  the 
whole  of  her,  which  clearly  belonged  to  me,  and 
so  as  a  last  resort  I  told  the  truckman  to  twist  her 
tail. 

This  is  not  a  dangerous  thing  to  do  to  a  cow, 
as  she  cannot  kick  high,  and  with  but  one  foot 
at  a  time.  To  do  this  to  a  horse  or  mule  would  be 
plain  suicide. 

As  he  twisted  I  put  one  foot  against  the  truck 
and  pulled  with  all  my  might.  For  a  moment  she 
did  not  budge,  although  he  applied  the  grape 
vine  twist,  but  when  he  shifted  to  the  pretzel 
twist  she  could  not  stand  the  pain,  and  sprang 
into  the  truck  so  quickly  that  I  fell  flat  on  my 
back  with  the  utmost  violence,  nearly  shaking 
my  teeth  loose,  and  causing  the  unmannerly  city 
boarders  to  roar  with  laughter. 

Now,  here  was  the  point  at  which  I  rather 
think  I  put  it  over  the  entire  crowd,  including 
the  truckman,  for,  lying  flat  on  the  ground  and 
keeping  my  foot  still  braced  against  the  truck, 
I  held  the  rope  taut  and  with  well-simulated 
coolness  shouted  to  the  truckman  to  fasten  the 
other  rope  to  the  side  of  the  truck,  and  while  he 
was  doing  it  I  lay  quietly  holding  the  rope  as  if 
it  had  been  my  deliberate  intention  to  land  pros 
trate  in  the  exact  method  practised.  Then,  when 


Personal  Pulchritude  123 

the  truckman  had  secured  the  cow,  I  slowly  arose 
and,  still  ignoring  the  city  boarders  as  if  they  did 
not  exist,  I  made  a  half -turn  of  the  rope  around 
one  of  the  uprights  of  the  truck,  and  resumed  my 
coat,  and  we  climbed  to  the  seat,  threw  on  the 
power,  and  backed  out  of  the  yard.  As  we  de 
parted  I  raised  my  hat  as  politely  as  possible 
to  the  family  of  the  deputy  sheriff. 

As  we  drove  out  of  the  yard  I  distinctly  heard 
one  of  the  city  boarders  remark  to  another  in  a 
tone  of  respectful  surprise*:  "Well,  say,  the  old 
guy  knew  what  he  was  doing  after  all." 
To  whom  the  other  replied: 
"Yes,  he  ain't  such  a  fool  as  he  looks." 
"Gosh,"  was  the  reply,  "it  would  be  tough  if 
he  was." 

So,  on  the  whole,  I  felt  that  I  had  made  an 
impression  of  respectability  and  common  sense, 
even  if  I  had  not  impressed  them  by  my  personal 
beauty. 

Even  the  truckman  had  conceived  a  sort  of 
respect  for  me  that  had  not  shown  before,  and 
as  we  jogged  along  we  lit  our  pipes  and  chatted 
like  old  friends  about  various  matters  of  com 
mon  interest.  The  motor  rattled  and  bubbled, 
the  cow  swayed  from  side  to  side  as  we  rattled 
around  corners.  We  met  acquaintances  who 
bowed  and  smiled  and  waved  their  hands.  We 
met  motors  and  the  cow  shrunk  away  as  far  as 


124      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

her  tethers  would  permit.  But  she  was  too  securely 
tied  to  get  away. 

Was  she?  Wait  a  bit.  Just  as  we  were  bowling 
along  beside  a  green  field  beyond  which  was  a 
deep  wood  on  the  farther  bank  of  a  rushing 
brook,  there  was  a  terrific  agitation  behind  us. 
We  turned  in  time  to  dodge  the  front  hoofs  of 
the  animal,  which  was  rearing  and  plunging  like 
a  bucking  broncho  and  slatting  her  horns  fu 
riously  from  side  to  side.  The  truckman  threw 
on  the  brake  and  we  stopped  the  machine  just 
as  the  headstall  parted  and  she  leaped  like  a  deer 
over  the  side  of  the  truck,  still  tied  to  the  post 
by  a  neck  hitch.  Luckily  the  rope  broke  or  she 
would  have  broken  her  neck;  away  she  went, 
over  the  fence  and  across  the  brook  like  a  thor 
oughbred  steeple-chaser. 

Seizing  our  ropes  we  took  up  the  trail  at  full 
speed.  It  was  neither  a  southerly  wind  nor  a 
cloudy  sky,  but  none  the  less  it  was  a  hunting 
afternoon.  "  Yoicks ! "  "  Tallyho ! "  "  Gone  away ! " 
"Ra-ta-ti  —  Ra-ta-ti  —  Ra-ta!"  I  could  almost 
hear  the  hunting  horn  as  we  took  the  field. 

The  truckman  took  the  lead,  running  easily 
and  with  high  knee  action.  I  followed  at  a  steady 
pace  making  for  the  covert.  The  truckman,  re 
joicing  in  his  youth,  unwisely  tried  to  clear  the 
brook  in  his  stride.  The  cow  had  done  so  easily. 
Why  not  he?  The  take-off  was  of  stiff  clay  mixed 


Y aides  t  Tallyho!  125 

with  marl  and  topped  with  turf,  an  excellent 
take-off  for  timber-topping.  Holding  himself  well 
in  hand,  he  lifted  himself  like  a  bird.  Just  how 
he  did  it,  I  never  could  understand,  but  about 
halfway  across  he  seemed  to  stop  in  mid-air,  poise 
a  moment,  as  I  have  many  times  seen  a  king 
fisher  do,  and  then  disappear  from  sight  with  a 
tremendous  splash,  to  reappear  clutching  franti 
cally  for  his  floating  hat,  and  with  hideous  impre 
cations,  aimed  impartially  at  the  cow,  her  owner, 
the  brook,  the  infernal  foolishness  of  the  whole 
thing,  the  world  in  general,  to  slosh  to  the  bank 
and  drag  himself  drippingly  to  the  farther  side. 

Warned  by  his  mishap  I  cast  about  for  a  bridge 
and  finally  found  a  plank  which  I  crossed  without 
danger  and  sped  after  the  quarry.  When  I  got  to 
the  wood  she  had  disappeared  and  I  could  not 
hear  a  sound.  While  I  listened  the  truckman 
came  up  and  really  seemed  to  have  lost  all  am 
bition  and  interest  in  the  hunt.  In  vain  I  repre 
sented  to  him  the  folly  of  quitting.  He  flatly  de 
clined  to  go  a  step  farther,  and  it  was  only  when 
I  put  the  matter  on  a  sound  financial  basis  that 
he  consented  to  stay  by  me  to  the  bitter  end. 
So  together  we  plunged  into  the  thicket  and  griev 
ously  tore  ourselves  on  the  thorns  and  briars : 

"I  scratched  my  hands  and  tore  my  hair, 
But  still  did  not  complain, 
And  had  my  blackberries  been  safe 
Should  not  have  cared  a  grain." 


126      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

But  I  did  not  say  this  to  him.  He  had  shown 
a  crude  lack  of  sympathy  with  literature,  and  I 
merely  breathed  it  to  myself  as  I  painfully  un 
twined  from  my  waist  a  clinging  vine  containing 
no  less  than  a  dozen  needle-like  briars,  all  of  which 
were  deeply  embedded  in  my  cuticle. 

As  we  heard  nothing  of  the  cow  we  pressed 
on,  stopping  occasionally  to  extract  briars  and 
to  breathe  and  curse.  After  a  while  we  worked 
our  way  through  the  thicket  and  found  the  spoor 
of  the  cow.  From  the  deep  indentations  we  de 
cided  that  she  had  been  going  due  west  at  a  rapid 
pace,  with  all  sails  set  and  every  stitch  drawing. 
After  going  a  short  distance  we  lost  the  trail  in 
the  thick  grass.  We  cast  a  few  eagle  glances  in 
several  directions,  but  could  not  see  her. 

"Long  looked  the  anxious  squires,  their  eyes 
Could  in  the  sunlight  nought  descry." 

Then  we  held  a  hasty  colloquy  and  should  have 
hastily  swallowed  a  few  mouthfuls  of  pemmican, 
but  not  having  any  I  lit  a  cigarette  and  the  truck 
man  took  a  plug  of  "niggerhead  "  from  his  pocket 
and  wrenched  off  a  goodly  mouthful.  Thus  re 
freshed  we  separated  and  began  to  walk  slowly 
toward  the  next  spinney  casting  about  in  circles 
for  fresh  tracks,  whimpering  in  our  eagerness. 

A  joyful  challenge  from  the  truckman  and  a 
wave  of  his  hand  showed  that  he  had  picked  up 


Ra-ta-ti  —  Ra-ta-ti — Ra-ta  !  127 

the  scent,  and  we  let  ourselves  out  under  wraps 
and  made  play  toward  a  copse  in  the  direction 
of  which  her  trail  led.  Arrived  there  we  listened 
long,  but  could  hear  nothing,  perhaps  on  account 
of  our  rapid  and  rather  wheezy  breathing  and 
the  pounding  of  our  hearts.  Then  we  cautiously 
entered  the  whin  and  advanced  slowly,  peering 
keenly  through  the  leaves.  Suddenly  there  was 
a  snort  and  a  tremendous  crash  in  the  bushes. 
Now,  although  I  knew  at  once  that  it  was  my 
vagrant  cow,  yet  it  came  so  suddenly  that  it 
scared  me  nearly  to  death,  and  I  thought  my 
heart  would  never  return  to  its  normal  position. 
From  the  abhorrent  language  of  the  truckman  I 
feel  sure  that  he  was  similarly  affected. 

However,  we  recovered  ourselves  and  dashed 
in  pursuit,  and  got  through  the  wood  in  time  to 
see  her  several  hundred  yards  in  the  lead,  run 
ning  like  an  antelope,  with  her  tail  standing  out 
as  stiffly  as  a  rear  bowsprit,  if  there  be  any  such  a 
contradiction.  We  passed  on  as  fast  as  we  could, 
but  as  my  second  wind  had  not  come,  and  I  was 
very  much  in  need  of  it,  we  fell  behind  disgrace 
fully,  and  in  a  short  time  our  quarry  had  passed 
out  of  sight  in  the  dim  and  unfathomed  distance. 

The  truckman  here  wanted  to  quit  and  call  on 
the  state  militia  or  the  police,  but  I  insisted  on 
proceeding.  I  had  read  that  a  man  could  walk 
down  a  horse  if  he  only  kept  at  it  long  enough, 


128      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

and  I  sagely  concluded  that  if  one  man  could 
walk  down  a  horse,  which  is  by  nature  a  speedful 
animal  of  great  courage  and  endurance,  why, 
then,  two  men  must  be  able  to  run  down  a  cow, 
an  animal  created  for  more  slothful  pursuits.  So 
I  insisted  that  our  contract  bound  him  to  follow 
me  whithersoever  I  went.  I  longed  to  trill  in  a 
rich  bass  voice: 

"Come,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow  me. 
Whither  shall  I  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow  thee?" 

But  I  did  not  dare  make  light  of  our  mission,  and 
then  I  had  no  rich  bass  voice  to  troll  with  —  my 
voice  being  a  somewhat  shopworn  mezzo  —  and 
in  my  exhausted  condition  I  should  not  have  been 
able  to  use  it,  if  I  had.  So  we  plugged  along  dog 
gedly  for  what  seemed  an  interminable  distance 
and  finally  came  out  upon  a  road,  a  public  high 
way,  on  the  opposite  side  of  which  was  a  farm 
house,  in  the  yard  of  which  we  saw  — 

"  'O  frabjous  day!  Callooh!  Gallay!' 
I  chortled  in  my  joy"  — 

my  cow  quietly  grazing  with  a  herd  of  cows  be 
longing  to  the  ranch,  and  when  I  looked  about 
me  and 'joyfully  recognized  the  locality,  I  found 
myself  within  a  short  mile  and  a  half  of  my  own 
farm.  I  don't  know  when  I  have  been  so  delighted. 
I  had  feared  that  when  we  succeeded  in  rounding 


Old  Man  Noah  129 

her  up,  we  should  find  ourselves  at  the  Vermont 
border  line,  and  had  for  the  last  hour  been  ex 
pecting  to  see  the  Connecticut  River;  I  knew 
she  could  n't  jump  that  and  probably  would  not 
try  to  swim  it.  When  we  first  took  the  field  with 
a  merry  "Hark,  forward!"  the  Connecticut  was 
a  short  sixty -eight  miles  distant  as  the  crow  flies, 
and  I  felt  sure  we  had  travelled  fully  that  dis 
tance  and  that  is  what  had  buoyed  me  up.  And 
so,  when  I  found  myself  so  near  home,  I  felt  as 
old  man  Noah  must  have  felt  when  he  set  foot 
on  Mount  Ararat. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  to  catch  her  and 
anchor  her  firmly  with  a  rope  halter.  Indeed,  she 
seemed  genuinely  glad  to  see  me  and  willing 
to  be  forgiven,  and  on  my  part  I  was  willing  to 
forgive  if  not  forget.  The  truckman  was  a  bit 
inclined  to  lambaste  her,  but  as  she  was  my  cow 
and  as  he  was  well  paid  for  chasing  her,  I  did  not 
allow  him  to  indulge  his  evil  passion,  and  having 
settled  his  bill  I  took  my  cow  and  started  for 
home  in  the  gloaming,  leaving  him  to  retrieve 
his  truck,  miles  away. 

The  final  mile  was,  despite  my  pleasure  in  ac 
cumulating  my  vagrant  property,  perhaps  the 
longest  mile  I  ever  travelled.  It  had  been  rather 
over  forty  years  since  I  had  taken  part  in  my  last 
hare  and  hounds  in  school,  and  I  did  not  realize 
until  too  late  what  a  lot  of  youthful  vigor  and 


130      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

boyish  ambition  had  been  worn  away  in  those 
forty  years. 

And  so  after  I  had  introduced  my  cow  to  her 
new  surroundings,  and  she  had  been  suitably  ad 
mired  and  well  fed,  I  went  to  bed  without  supper, 
and  with  no  other  preparation  for  slumber  than 
a  hot  bath  and  rubdown.  Before  leaving  her  I 
made  arrangements  for  the  gardener  of  the  estate 
joining  mine  to  milk  her.  I  did  not  feel  able.  I 
felt  that  there  was  danger  of  falling  asleep  at  my 
post  and  being  drowned  in  the  pail. 

Friday,  May  17,  191-.  I  thought  I  should  never 
get  out  of  bed  this  morning.  I  had  not  dropped  a 
stitch  in  my  back  and  had  not  contracted  sci 
atica,  but  I  was  so  lame  and  stiff  that  I  thought 
my  joints  were  rusted  stiff  and  that  my  muscles 
would  crack  every  time  I  moved.  I  am  certain 
that  they  creaked.  I  do  not  remember  ever  hav 
ing  been  so  lame,  even  on  the  mornings  after  the 
first  football  games  in  the  season,  which  in  the 
late  sixties  and  early  seventies  we  played  without 
any  preliminary  training. 

But  I  got  up  and  I  am  proud  of  it.  I  really 
thought  that  if  I  did  n't  get  up  then  I  never 
should  be  able  to,  and  so,  after  much  groaning 
and  calling  upon  the  saints  and  others,  I  man 
aged  to  dress  and  to  hobble  downstairs.  By  the 
time  I  had  built  the  kitchen  fire  I  was  limbering 


Rheumatic  Twinges  131 

up  a  trifle,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  I  went  to  the 
barn  to  see  my  cow.  She  was  very  well,  thank 
you  kindly,  and  pricked  up  her  fringed  ears  and 
let  out  a  soft  moo  of  recognition.  I  got  a  hoe  and 
started  to  clean  her  stall,  when  quick  as  a  flash 
she  kicked  me  on  the  wrist  and  knocked  the  hoe 
out  of  my  hand.  The  blow  did  n't  hurt  me  a  bit, 
but  it  roused  my  temper,  which  is  of  the  hair- 
trigger  variety,  and  for  a  moment  it  looked  as 
if  she  was  in  for  a  beating.  But  I  suddenly  re 
membered  that  the  owner  had  told  me  that  the 
only  thing  she  resented  was  having  a  hoe  behind 
her.  So  I  curbed  my  temper,  which  was  more  eas 
ily  done  than  usual  owing  to  the  fact  that  any 
unusual  motions  caused  me  acute  twinges,  and 
entering  the  stall,  untied  her,  backed  her  out, 
and  tied  her  in  the  main  barn.  Then  I  cleaned 
out  her  stall,  threw  in  fresh  bedding,  mixed  a 
mash  in  a  pail,  and  led  her  back. 

Then,  while  she  was  absorbed  in  rapid  and 
rasping  tongue  work  in  her  pail,  I  sat  down  with 
my  bright  new  pail  which  I  bought  several  days 
ago  in  anticipation  of  her  advent,  and  began 
to  milk  her.  I  am  no  amateur  in  the  gentle  art. 
Years  agone,  single-handed  and  alone,  I  fought 
and  conquered  a  venerable  Jersey  and  learned  to 
milk  two-handed,  and  for  two  years  I  sat  morning 
and  night  daily  with  perfect  ease  in  a  humped- 
up  and  cramped  position  and  mentally  com- 


132      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

posed  waltzes  and  polkas  and  quicksteps  to  the 
rhythmic  singing  of  the  twin  streams  of  snowy 
white  in  the  shining  pail,  only  breaking  into  czar 
das  of  profanity  when  an  unusually  severe  sting 
of  a  horsefly  caused  her  to  slam  me  against  the 
side  of  the  stall  by  a  quick  shift  of  her  hind  quar 
ters,  or  to  swipe  me  across  my  distorted  bucolic 
countenance  with  the  matted  tassel  of  her  tail, 
weighing  in  the  vicinity  of  fifteen  pounds. 

And  many  a  time  and  oft  have  I  indulged 
in  much  speculation  as  to  which  was  the  more 
dangerous,  to  be  slammed  against  a  hard-shelled 
partition  wall  by  a  justly  indignant  cow,  or  to  be 
stung  on  the  back  of  the  neck  by  a  virile  and  ut 
terly  selfish  horsefly  when  one's  hands  are  fully 
occupied?  A  mean  trick  even  for  a  horsefly.  In 
the  former  there  is  danger  of  fractured  ribs  and 
broken  resolutions.  In  the  latter  of  typhoid. 

I  was  delighted  to  find  that  I  had  not  forgot 
ten  the  art,  and  while  my  wrists  were  not  as 
strong,  and  the  smooth  rhythmic  cadence  not  as 
perfect,  yet  I  felt  that  in  a  short  time  I  should 
be  as  good  as  ever. 

It  is  said  that  a  man  never  forgets  how  to  swim, 
to  ride  a  bicycle,  or  to  set  type,  once  he  has 
learned.  I  am  sure  that  the  same  is  true  of  milk 
ing  and,  despite  my  aching  muscles  and  tortured 
ligaments,  I  was  very  much  delighted  with  the 
fact.  I  was  a  very  proud  and  rheumatic  old  agri- 


The  Doctor's  Opinion  133 

culturist  as  I  carried  in  a  good  measure  of  milk 
topped  with  a  good  bead  of  foam,  which  is  the 
mark  of  the  skilled  milker.  And  what  a  pleasure 
it  is  to  strain  it  into  pans,  and  to  carry  it  down 
cellar  to  the  wired  shelf  where  it  is  to  stand  until 
ready  to  skim. 

I  did  not  tether  her  out  to-day,  nor  did  I  the 
sheep.  I  knew  it  was  physically  impossible  for 
me  to  catch  either  of  them  should  either  break 
away.  No,  I  must  recover  in  part  from  my  stiff 
ness. 

The  cream  from  last  night's  milk  was  won 
derful,  and  the  way  those  pigs  disposed  of  the 
skim  milk  shows  plainly  that  the  addition  to  the 
live-stock  is  most  welcome.  Indeed,  Betty  will 
scarcely  let  me  out  of  her  sight.  Milked  again 
to-night. 

Could  not  do  any  work  in  the  garden.  Hope  to 
be  able  to  do  something  to-morrow. 

Saturday,  May  18,  191-.  Felt  a  little  better  this 
morning.  Not  much,  however.  It  was  like  jump 
ing  into  ice  water,  or  having  a  tooth  out,  to  get 
out  of  bed.  The  doctor  says  I  am  lucky  to  be  able 
to  get  out  of  bed  in  a  month  after  what  I  did 
day  before  yesterday.  He  said  that  any  man 
who  made  such  a  cussed  fool  of  himself  as  I  did, 
does  not  deserve  to  come  out  of  it  half  as  well  as 
I  have.  He  asked  me  if  I  realized  how  old  I  am, 


134      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

and  I  told  him  I  had  n't  until  yesterday  morning, 
and  then  I  could  have  sworn  that  I  was  over 
ninety. 

I  milked  this  morning.  My  wrists  are  a  bit 
lame,  but  not  to  bother  me.  Perhaps  if  the  rest 
of  me  was  less  lame  I  might  notice  my  wrists. 
I  can  almost  see  my  pigs  grow.  Dick  was  good 
enough  to  mow  the  lawn  to-day  for  me.  By  using 
a  hood  he  got  about  four  bushels  of  good  grass 
for  the  cow.  I  did  not  work  in  garden. 

Sunday,  May  19,  191-.  A  dull,  leaden,  depress 
ing  cloud  has  been  hanging  low  over  my  little 
agricultural  community.  Something  is  wrong 
with  my  cow.  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  unscien 
tific  in  my  method  of  feeding.  Just  where  I  have 
failed  I  cannot  say.  In  some  way  her  rations  have 
been  unbalanced.  It  may  be  that  I  gave  her  a 
bit  too  much  tankage  or  a  bit  too  little  gluten.  I 
may  have  been  too  generous  with  oil  cake  and  too 
niggardly  with  stock  feed.  Perhaps  when  I  have 
tethered  her  out  she  may  not  have  followed  the 
injunctions  of  the  poet  — 

"Do  not  eat  the  hemlock  rank 
Growing  by  the  weedy  bank, 
But  the  yellow  cowslips  eat, 
They  will  make  it  [meaning  the  milk]  nice  and  sweet." 

At  all  events,  she  is  ailing  and  distempered. 
When  I  went  to  her  cell  —  I  mean,  of  course, 


A  Frightfully  Distended  Cow  135 

her  stall  —  this  morning,  I  saw  at  once  that  she 
was  far  from  well.  She  did  not  lower  her  head 
and  shake  her  horns  at  me  from  sheer  high  spirits. 
She  did  not  playfully  essay  to  crowd  me  against 
the  side  of  her  stall  and  thereby  cave  in  my 
thoracic  cavity.  She  did  not  swing  her  head 
sharply  round,  ostensibly  to  drive  away  a  fly,  but 
really  to  knock  me  a  rod  or  more. 

She  refused  to  eat;  she  refused  to  drink;  she 
appeared  frightfully  distended.  Indeed,  to  such 
an  extent  that  her  once  prominent  hip  bones  had 
entirely  disappeared.  She  was  shaped  much  like 
a  sausage  balloon.  I  was  so  much  perturbed  over 
her  condition  that  I  absent-mindedly  sat  down 
and  milked  her  into  the  pig  pail. 

I  was  seriously  worried.  The  health  and  pro 
ductive  condition  of  this  animal  meant  much, 
nay,  all  to  my  agricultural  menage.  Without 
milk  it  meant  either  starvation  for  my  pigs  or 
vastly  increased  expense  for  me,  and  milk  at 
fourteen  cents  a  quart! 

I  took  another  comprehensive  look  at  her 
from  armored  head  to  prehensile  tail.  Her  eyes 
were  dull  and  glassy.  Her  head  hung  low.  Her 
tail,  that  erstwhile  was  prone  to  twist  and  coil 
about  my  windpipe,  and  to  deal  me  heavy  and 
highly  flavored  blows  upon  my  eyes,  nose,  and 
mouth,  hung  limp  and  lifeless. 

I  tried  to  see  if  her  tongue  was  coated,  but  was 


136      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

unable  to  open  her  mouth  without  the  aid  of  a 
Stillson  wrench  or  a  crowbar,  and  I  did  not  like 
to  employ  such  drastic  measures  on  so  short  an 
acquaintance.  But  I  feel  confident  that  her  tongue 
was  both  coated  and  furred;  indeed  her  language 
was  incoherent  and  practically  unintelligible.  It 
was  clearly  a  case  for  a  veterinarian.  Years  be 
fore  I  had  employed  a  veterinarian  to  perform 
some  necessary  operation  to  the  jaw  of  a  broncho, 
a  determined,  hot-tempered,  wrong-headed,  opin 
ionated  beast  that  had  taken  me  through  our 
congested  business  district  at  a  most  terrific 
rate  of  speed  in  spite  of  my  most  desperate  re 
sistance  exerted  through  the  leverage  of  a  Mexi 
can  curb,  and  was  only  stopped  by  a  ten-foot 
fence,  which  did  not  stop  me  for  a  moment  as 
I  went  lightly  over  and  some  distance  beyond. 
I  did  not  fall  at  all  lightly,  however. 

As  a  result  I  was  left  with  a  case  of  locomotor 
ataxia,  happily  temporary,  and  the  broncho  with 
a  somewhat  distorted  lower  maxillary, "  Actinomi- 
cosis,"  I  think  the  veterinarian  called  it.  Indeed, 
throughout  his  treatment  his  language  was  of 
so  highly  technical  a  nature  that  I  never  fully 
understood  the  nature  of  the  diagnosis  or  of  the 
remedial  treatment. 

That  the  disease  was  something  very  serious 
and  the  remedy  heroic  to  the  nth  degree,  I  was 
convinced  from  his  bill  for  services,  which,  added 


A  Man  of  Few  Words  137 

to  the  modest  price  paid  for  the  animal,  made 
a  grand  total  that  would  have  gone  far  in  the 
purchase  of  the  Godolphin  Arabian. 

Now  I  was  mindful  of  a  farmer  acquaintance 
said  to  have  wondrous  skill  in  the  rehabilitation 
of  disordered  farm  animals.  Not  a  seventh  son 
of  a  seventh  son,  perhaps,  but  according  to  local 
report  a  son-of-a-gun  with  neat  stock  of  every 
variety.  And  in  employing  him  I  reckoned  pretty 
confidently  upon  finding  out  what  the  trouble 
was,  and  in  language  that  even  I  could  under 
stand. 

So  I  called  him  up  and  told  him  to 

"Speed,  Malise,  Speed," 
and  added  to 

"Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 
Leave  nets  and  barges: 
Come  in  your  fighting  gear, 
Broadswords  and  targes." 

"Oh,  yes,  Scott,  eh?"  he  said  in  reply.  "You 
want  me  to  come  damn  quick.  All  right,  I'll  be 
there  before  you  can  turn  round  twice." 

I  was  delighted.  Here  was  a  man  of  few  words. 
A  man  of  parts  and  of  plain  language,  and  homely. 
The  very  man  I  wanted. 

He  evidently  took  me  at  my  word,  and  in  a 
short  time  a  mud-encrusted  flivver  tore  into  my 
yard  on  two  wheels;  drew  up  with  a  jerk,  and 


138      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

disgorged  a  stout,  rosy  man  of  fifty  and  a  gaunt 
youth  of  twenty,  together  with  a  black  bag  filled 
with  what  appeared  to  be  a  complete  plumber's 
or  bank  burglar's  outfit. 

The  doctor  began  to  cross-examine  me  sharply 
by  asking  me  pointedly  if  I  had  fed  her  on  any 
thing  containing  Puccinia  Straminis,  Puccinia 
Coronata,  or  Puccinia  Arundinacea.  I  told  him  I 
was  quite  sure  that  I  had  not  ordered  or  obtained 
anything  that  sounded  like  that,  or  them. 

I  denied  hotly  having  given  her  Polytrincium 
Tripolii  or  anything  remotely  approaching  it, 
whatever  it  might  be,  but  he  regarded  me  with 
considerable  suspicion,  and  I  felt  that  he  enter 
tained  strong  doubts  of  my  veracity. 

He  said  something  about  Pharyngeal  Polypi 
and  applied  his  ear  to  her  chest.  After  a  moment 
of  listening  he  said  there  seemed  to  be  no  symp 
toms  of  Hememoptysis  or  Emphyema.  I  felt  very 
much  relieved  at  this  and  told  him  as  much. 
I  should  have  given  up  hope  had  she  contracted 
either  Emphyoptysis  or  Hemempsyema  and  I 
told  him  that,  too,  but  he  made  no  reply  except 
a  monosyllabic  grunt  that  might  have  meant 
anything,  but  which  I  somehow  interpreted  as 
expressing  a  light  opinion  of  my  intelligence. 

After  a  moment  he  shifted  to  the  after  deck 
of  the  animal  and  laid  his  ear  against  her  dis 
tended  flanks.  He  got  something  tangible  there, 


Plain  Language  139 

which  he  diagnosed  as  "Non-rhythmic  diaphrag 
matic  pulsations,"  which  he  said  indicated  in 
dubitably  an  inflamed  and  congested  condition 
of  the  Rumen,  otherwise  known  as  "Impaction  of 
the  Maniplis." 

Now  this  was  the  language  of  the  trained  vet 
erinarian  and  not  mine,  and  I  leave  you  to  infer 
how  serious  it  made  her  illness  seem  to  me.  Al 
though  naturally  of  an  optimistic  and  buoyant 
disposition,  I  became  plumb  discouraged  and 
nearly  lost  hope.  One  should  never  lose  hope  in 
a  sick  chamber  or  in  the  presence  of  one  suffering. 
But  " Non-rhythmic  diaphragmatic  pulsations" 
seemed  about  the  last  step  in  the  dead  march  to 
the  fertilizer  factory. 

The  veterinarian  also  said  that  he  had  had 
grave  fears  of  "  Thrombosis,"  which  was  generally 
fatal,  but  that  he  was  confident  that  she  had  es 
caped  that.  I  was  relieved  to  find  that  she  did  not 
have  "Thrombosis,"  for  I  knew  it  was  generally 
fatal  or  ought  to  be.  I  had  played  a  B  flat  Throm- 
bone  quite  a  little  in  my  younger  and  unregen- 
erate  days  until  I  found  that  its  effect  was  fre 
quently  fatal.  At  least  several  irate  and  able- 
bodied  members  of  the  community  had  informed 
me  that  unless  I  desisted  it  would  be  almost  in 
stantly  fatal. 

The  doctor  then  removed  his  coat  and  stripped 
up  his  sleeves  revealing  herculean  muscles,  and 


140      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

his  gaunt  and  youthful  assistant  did  the  like 
without,  however,  accomplishing  like  results. 
Then  he  asked  if  I  happened  to  have  a  quart 
bottle  about  the  premises.  I  replied  that  not 
withstanding  a  congenital  and  deeply  rooted 
antipathy  to  the  saloon,  and  notwithstanding 
an  official  life  of  many  years  devoted  to  a  con 
stant  and  hand-to-hand  struggle  with  the  Demon 
Rum  and  the  various  members  of  his  family,  yet 
occasionally  a  quart  bottle  wandered  into  our 
home  life  out  of  the  cold  and  rain,  and  made  its 
home  with  us. 

I  was  then  requested  by  the  doctor  to  produce 
at  once  or  sooner  an  empty  quart  bottle  and  a 
pail.  If  the  bottle  were  only  partly  empty  it 
would  do  as  well,  for  he  would  see  that  it  was 
emptied  without  undue  waste  of  time.  I  brought 
the  bottle  and  the  pail,  both  empty,  at  which 
the  doctor  looked  a  bit  disappointed,  but  pro 
ceeded  to  compound  a  sort  of  witchbroth  of  tar, 
soft  soap,  hot  water,  varnish,  asafoetida,  garlic, 
limburger  cheese,  and  sulphuretted  hydrogen. 
Of  course  I  would  not  vouch  for  the  correctness 
of  this  analysis,  but  the  concentrated  villainy 
of  the  completed  compound  certainly  would 
warrant  so  modest  a  statement. 

Then  he  filled  the  bottle  with  the  compound 
and  directed  me  to  hold  the  animal's  head  in 
position  while  he  administered  the  dose.  I  en- 


Flapping  a  Dustcloth  141 

tered  the  stall,  threw  my  right  arm  around  her 
neck  just  below  her  horns,  my  left  under  her 
muzzle,  and  raised  her  head  without  difficulty. 
But  the  moment  she  inhaled  a  strong  whiff  of 
that  nauseous  compound  she  awoke  to  the  situ 
ation,  let  out  an  agonized  bellow  of  protest,  and 
strove  mightily  to  disengage  my  clinging  tendrils. 

In  so  doing  she  chose  a  method  highly  dis 
concerting  to  me,  for  she  alternately  and  with  the 
greatest  velocity  elevated  her  head  skyward  to 
the  full  length  of  her  neck  and  then  depressed  it 
until  her  muzzle  touched  the  floor.  This  had  the 
effect  of  flapping  me  in  the  air  as  a  housemaid 
flaps  a  dustcloth,  and  with  much  the  same  re 
sult,  as  dust  from  my  barn  clothes  flew  in  clouds 
and  my  heels  cracked  together  like  a  giant  whip 
lash.  Indeed,  had  it  not  been  for  my  heavy  barn 
brogans  I  should  have  been  frayed  and  unrav 
elled  to  my  knees  like  an  antimacassar  or  like 
an  old,  a  very  old,  pair  of  trousers. 

I  let  go  long  before  I  broke  loose  owing  to  the 
fact  that  one  of  her  horns  had  slipped  under 
my  sweater,  which  proved  to  be  of  astonishingly 
strong  material,  and  when  I  brushed  the  hay 
seed,  dust,  and  cobwebs  out  of  my  eyes  I  was  in 
a  contorted  heap  in  the  manger,  and  the  cow  had 
backed  to  the  end  of  her  tether,  and  with  raised 
ears  was  staring  at  me  with  a  world  of  reproach 
and  misgivings  in  her  eyes. 


142      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

My  fevered  gaze  took  in  the  doctor  holding 
his  sides,  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks,  his 
head  thrown  back,  and  his  mouth  open,  roaring 
with  laughter,  while  the  assistant,  clasping  his 
hands  over  his  stomach  like  a  man  far  gone  with 
cholera,  was  allowing  that  he  "Never  —  haw! 
haw !  -  -  saw  such  a  -  -  hee !  haw !  ho !  -  -  sight  in 
—  haw !  —  my  -  -  ki !  hi !  ho !  haw !  -  -  life  —  hoo ! 
haw!"  I  reminded  them  somewhat  heatedly  that 
I  had  engaged  them  to  treat  that  cow,  and  that 
if  I  knew  myself,  and  I  thought  I  did,  I  did  n't 
propose  to  furnish  any  further  entertainment  as 
an  acrobat,  and  that  they  had  better  get  onto 
their  job. 

After  they  had  helped  me  to  crawl,  somewhat 
disjointedly,  out  of  the  manger,  they  closed  in 
on  the  cow  in  order  to  show  me  how  easily  pro 
fessional  training  can  accomplish  what  mere 
brute  force  had  failed  to  do.  They  were  not 
wholly  successful  except  as  acrobatic  rivals  to 
me,  for  the  way  that  small  Jersey  jiu-jitsu-ed 
them  about  and  around  that  stall  bordered  on 
the  marvellous. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  enjoy  the  proceedings, 
which  I  did  to  the  utmost,  and  especially  was 
I  delighted  when  she  stepped  on  the  assistant's 
leg  and  bent  it  several  inches  out  of  plumb,  bent 
the  doctor  backwards  over  the  side  partition  of 
the  stall  until  I  distinctly  heard  his  spinal  verte- 


My  Turn  to  Laugh  143 

brse  grate,  and  finally  kicked  the  assistant  in  the 
stomach,  which,  judging  from  the  wheezy  suc 
cession  of  spasmodic  grunts  and  gasps,  caused 
him  "Non-rhythmic  diaphragmatic  pulsations," 
which  promised  never  to  cease. 

Time  was  called  and  the  combatants  separated 
to  give  the  assistant  an  opportunity  to  obtain  a 
new  supply  of  oxygen  and  to  bend  his  leg  back 
into  shape. 

After  a  consultation  the  doctor,  who  had  once 
punched  cattle  on  the  plains,  procured  a  lasso, 
twirled  it  around  his  head  until  it  sang  like  a 
glass  bottle  on  a  string,  and  essayed  to  cast  it 
over  the  cow's  horns  just  as  the  assistant  wan 
dered  into  its  orbit  and  was  brought  down  with 
a  stunning,  stinging  swipe  just  above  the  ear, 
which  did  much  to  heighten  my  enjoyment  and 
to  reconcile  me  to  my  own  acrobatic  performance 
that  had  afforded  them  so  much  delight  and 
amusement.  Really,  "he  laughs  best  who  laughs 
last." 

After  the  assistant  had  recovered  and  suitable 
apologies  had  been  made,  a  second  cast  was  made, 
was  more  successful,  and  the  patient  was  speed 
ily  trussed  up  and  filled  with  the  fearful  brew. 
The  doctor  then  repacked  his  apparatus,  told 
me  he  thought  she  would  do,  and  I  then  asked, 
as  a  matter  of  prevention,  for  some  directions 
for  the  care  of  the  animal  in  the  future,  and  was 


144      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

informed  that  a  microscopic  protozoon  of  the 
diaphragm  of  a  young  cow  was  due,  according 
to  Brusaferro,  to  Metastrogulus  Micrurus,  or  to 
Balantidium  Coli.  It  is  mighty  gratifying  to 
know  this,  and  puts  the  matter  of  protection 
right  in  one's  hands. 

He  further  informed  me  that  I  must  positively 
guard  against  Mycotic  Apthous  Stomatitis.  I 
told  him  that  I  would  be  on  the  guard,  even 
should  ten  thousand  foes  arise,  and  he  grunted 
again,  this  time  I  believe  with  appreciation.  He 
went  on  to  say  that  I  must  be  extremely  care 
ful  to  avoid  feeding  her  with  anything  containing 
the  germs  of  Pleurodymia,  Verminous  Epistaxis, 
or  Chronic  Timpanites.  I  promised  him  on  my 
sacred  honor  that  anything  of  that  nature  that 
could  be  detected  by  a  high-powered  micro 
scope,  a  naturally  inquiring  disposition,  and  the 
thorough  knowledge  of  predatory  and  noxious 
germs  that  he  had  imparted  to  me,  would  be 
detected  and  side-stepped,  ducked  and  avoided. 

He  approved  of  my  determination  highly,  and 
to  further  increase  my  precautions  he  charged 
me  under  no  considerations  to  expose  her  to  Ery 
thema,  Impetigo,  Polygonum  Hydropiper,  Pity- 
riasis,  or  Scleroderma. 

Then  he  presented  his  bill,  which  was  extremely 
modest  considering  his  great  and  polysyllabic 
learning,  which  bill  I  not  only  promptly  paid, 


Short  Commons  145 

but  pressed  an  extra  fifty  cents  into  his  palm.  I 
felt  that  the  saving  to  me  by  his  prompt  and 
effective  treatment  was  so  great  that  I  could 
cast  aside  considerations  of  expense  and  be 
lavishly  generous. 

Then  the  doctor  spun  his  motor  until  the  en 
tire  machine  shuddered,  embarked  with  his  as 
sistant  and  his  plumber's  outfit,  and  rattled  out 
of  the  yard. 

To-night  my  cow  is  decidedly  better  and  gives 
promise  of  complete  recovery,  and  in  my  accurate 
and  detailed  knowledge  of  what  to  avoid  in  her 
care  and  feeding,  the  future  looks  rosy. 

But  really,  in  strict  confidence  and  as  one  man 
to  another,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know  just  what 
ailed  that  infernal  cow. 

Monday,  May  20,  191-.  My  cow  was  much  bet 
ter  to-day.  Of  course  her  illness  cut  her  milk  pro 
duction  down  to  about  a  quart  at  a  milking.  So 
my  pigs  have  had  short  commons  as  far  as  milk 
is  concerned.  But  they  can  eat  a  mixture  of  stock 
feed,  shorts,  and  hot,  not  too  hot,  water  with  a 
good  appetite  and  with  good  results.  Have  put  in 
corn  to-day,  the  second  succession.  The  first  is  up 
just  a  trifle.  My  beans  are  up,  and  I  shall  put  in 
pole  beans  this  week.  Pole  beans  are  more  easily 
gathered.  I  find  that  when  I  bend  over  too  much 
that  black  specks  fly  before  my  eyes. 


146      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

I  am  glad  I  am  not  a  professional  lawn-mower. 
By  that  I  mean  the  man  whose  life  from  May  to 
October  is  devoted  exclusively  to  lawn-mowing. 
It  is  bad  enough  to  spend  from  one  half  to  a  full 
hour  each  day  at  it.  That  cow  is  surely  a  grass 
absorber.  Yet  I  still  think  the  idea  good.  The 
cow  must  be  fed.  The  lawns  ought  to  be  mowed. 
If  you  do  not  feed  the  cow,  she  dies.  If  you  do 
not  mow  the  lawn,  the  grass  flourishes,  but  your 
place  looks  as  unkempt  as  a  man  with  longish  hair 
and  a  shiny  Prince  Albert  coat.  Still  no  great  or 
irreparable  harm  is  done  if  the  lawn  is  neglected. 
And  a  man  of  my  easy,  not  to  say  lazy  disposition 
is  prone  to  neglect  his  lawns.  But  a  lover  of  do 
mestic  animals  seldom  neglects  them,  however 
given  to  laziness.  In  consequence,  as  long  as  this 
cow  needs  grass  I  shall  regularly  mow  the  lawns 
and  the  result  will  be  beneficial  to  the  cow  and 
to  the  looks  of  the  lawn. 

Really,  I  think  I  have  planned  the  sequence  in 
the  most  logical  manner.  Still,  I  am  free  to  say 
that  I  do  not  regard  the  mower  as  a  friend. 
Rather  as  a  master. 

Tuesday,  May  21, 191-.  I  heard  my  first  bobolink 
to-day  and  stopped  hoeing  my  beans  to  go  to  the 
fence  and  look  across  the  field  and  listen.  It  is 
really  quite  a  succession  of  thrills  to  hear  day 
after  day  the  familiar  notes  of  old  friends  from 


A  Bobolink  147 

the  South.  And  the  bobolink  is  one  of  the  oldest 
and  best.  What  a  chap  he  is,  to  be  sure?  It 
seems  as  if  the  orange-shouldered,  black-breasted 
little  rascal  would  burst  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  own  music. 

His  voice  is  not  sweet.  There  is  a  metallic 
rattle  to  some  of  his  tones  that  make  them  harsh. 
Compared  with  it  the  voice  of  the  song  sparrow, 
the  wood  thrush,  and  the  rose-breasted  grosbeak 
are  far  sweeter  and  more  melodious,  as  is  the 
plaintive  note  of  the  bridge  pewee  rising  high  and 
sweet  above  the  rush  of  the  spring  freshet.  Yet 
there  is  a  rush  and  bubble  of  thronging  notes, 
and  a  quiver  of  wings  and  head  and  body  that 
carry  me  away  like  a  brilliant  instrumentalist 
with  a  wonderful  technique. 

And  yet  his  mating  song,  however  delightful, 
does  not  affect  me  nearly  as  much  as  when  in  Au 
gust,  with  his  drab  travelling  dress,  he  flies  with 
others  of  his  family  over  the  closely  mown  fields 
and  gives  the  monotonous  "Spink,"  "Spink," 
of  farewell.  One  of  the  latest  birds  to  come,  he 
is  one  of  the  earliest  to  go,  and  the  fields  seem 
pathetically  silent  after  his  departure. 

Wednesday,  May  22,  191-.  My  potatoes  are  up 
about  an  inch.  Potatoes  are  handsome  plants. 
Dark  green  rippled  foliage.  I  am  told  that  I  ought 
to  spray  as  soon  as  they  are  above  the  ground. 


148      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

And  a  striped  bug  can  undo  in  a  night  the  per 
spiring  work  of  weeks.  Luckily  they  are  easily 
destroyed,  but  eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  one 
must  pay  if  he  would  have  any  potatoes,  and  I 
am  determined  to  have  some  potatoes  if  I  have 
to  burst  a  button  to  do  it. 

A  few  years  ago  I  tried  to  raise  some  and  was 
told  to  spray  them  with  Paris  green  so  much  to 
the  gallon.  Thinking  that  if  the  scheduled  amount 
of  P.  G.  per  gallon  would  produce  dead  bugs, 
I  naturally  decided  that  double  the  amount  would 
produce  still  deader  bugs.  With  the  praiseworthy 
intention  of  doing  a  most  thorough  job  I  put 
two  tablespoonfuls  of  the  powder  where  one 
was  the  prescribed  dose,  and  having  thoroughly 
mixed  it,  sprayed  the  potato  plants.  Then,  wish 
ing  to  surprise  my  wife,  I  sprayed  her  immense 
bed  of  rosebushes  and  the  ramblers  at  the  corner 
of  the  house,  as  the  rose  bugs  were  coming  in 
swarms  to  attend  a  convention,  evidently  of  rose 
bugs  and  potato  bugs,  to  devise  certain  measures 
of  common  interest  to  the  pirate  community. 

My  intentions  were  of  the  purest,  but  the  re 
sult  was  disheartening  when  its  effect  on  my  po 
tatoes  and  my  wife's  roses  was  considered.  In 
three  days  the  leaves  of  the  rosebushes  and  the 
entire  foliage  of  the  potatoes  had  been  killed, 
and  the  bugs,  too,  for  not  a  neighbor  was  visited 
by  either  rose  or  potato  bug  that  season. 


Spraying  with  Paris  Green  149 

I  tried  to  look  at  our  misfortune  in  the  light  of 
pure  altruism,  and  to  induce  my  wife  to  view  it 
in  that  light.  I  might  have  succeeded  myself,  but 
I  failed  entirely  in  the  case  of  my  wife.  She  was 
very  much  disturbed  over  it  and  made  it  quite 
a  personal  matter.  And  even  now,  after  several 
years  have  elapsed,  when  we  are  thinking  up 
things  to  say  to  each  other,  things  that  will  bring 
the  blush  of  shame  to  our  faces,  and  cut  and 
burn  and  crush  and  mortify,  she  refers  pointedly 
to  my  conduct  on  that  day  when  I  "  went  to 
work  deliberately  —  deliberately,  I  say  —  to  spoil 
all  the  beautiful  roses  that  I  had  worked  so  hard 
to  raise  and  to  have  something  on  the  place  that 
did  n't  look  like  a  hurrah's  nest,  so  there!" 

Thursday,  May  23,  191-.  I  got  some  prepared 
poison,  mixed  a  gallon,  and  sprayed  the  potatoes. 
I  was  very  careful  to  follow  directions  accu 
rately.  I  must  have  some  potatoes  this  fall.  I 
planted  a  couple  of  rows  of  carrots  and  a  row 
of  tomatoes  to-day. 

My  pigs  are  thriving  to  an  extraordinary  de 
gree.  I  find  that  pigweed  is  the  green  they  are 
sinfully  addicted  to.  Pigweed  is  not  a  garden 
product  that  confers  much  credit  on  a  farm  or 
on  a  farmer,  nor  is  "  pusley,"  yet  they  have  their 
uses  like  nux  vomica  and  mild  cathartics.  And 
if  you  could  see  my  pigs  literally  gorging  them- 


150      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

selves  on  pigweed  and  my  hens  working  away  on 
the  pile  of  pusley  that  I  pull  out  of  the  garden, 
you  would  think  that  everything  has  its  use. 

Friday,  May  24,  191-.  Nearly  a  frost  this  morn 
ing.  I  should  have  felt  that  national  bankruptcy 
had  struck  me  had  my  corn  and  beans  been 
nipped. 

Saturday,  May  25,  191-.  Gosh!  how  much  grass 
that  cow  does  eat! 

Sunday,  May  26,  191-.  Forgot  to  cut  an  extra 
supply  of  grass  for  the  cow  yesterday.  I  don't 
think  my  lawn-mower  was  ever  so  resoundingly 
vocal  as  it  was  this  morning.  I  don't  object  to 
working  on  Sunday.  In  fact,  Sunday  is  a  great 
clean-up  day  for  me.  But  I  hate  to  do  work  of  a 
nature  that  attracts  the  notice  of  all  good  men 
and  true  within  a  radius  of  a  half-mile.  How 
ever,  my  cow  had  to  be  fed  and  so  I  mowed  most 
stridently. 

Monday,  May  27,  191-.  I  heard  to-day  that  I 
was  held  up  in  two  pulpits,  the  Methodist  and 
the  Baptist,  yesterday,  as  a  dreadful  example 
of  Sabbath-breaking. 

Well,  I  might  have  let  my  cow  loose  to  have 
an  unlimited  whack  at  my  growing  crops  and 


Butter  s-In  151 

have  saved  my  reputation.  But  then  I  might 
have  lost  my  cow  from  over-feeding.  On  the 
whole  I  break  even. 

Tuesday,  May  28,  191-.  Barring  lawn-mowing, 
to  which  I  am  an  abject  slave,  have  done  no  farm 
work  to-day.  My  law  practice  is  getting  vastly 
annoying. 

Wednesday,  May  29,  191-.  Busy  overtime  in  the 
office.  Really  I  wish  that  litigants  would  post 
pone  their  differences  until  fall  and  winter. 

Thursday,  May  30,  191-.  Rain  again.  We  need  it. 

Friday,  May  31, 191-.  A  glorious  day  and  I  had 
to  take  depositions  in  my  office  all  day.  I  got  one 
welcome  respite  this  afternoon  when  my  wife  tel 
ephoned  me  that  the  pigs  were  out  and  career 
ing  all  over  the  neighborhood. 

I  declared  a  recess,  commandeered  a  motor 
and  the  Chief  of  Police  who  was  leaning  against 
a  post,  and  we  shot  for  my  farm  with  the  cut-out 
roaring,  in  plain  violation  of  traffic  rules.  But 
then  what  can  you  expect  from  the  Justice  of 
the  Municipal  Court  and  the  Chief  of  Police? 

When  we  got  to  my  farm  we  saw  a  very  amus 
ing  sight.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  from 
my  house  is  my  sisters'  house,  and  evidently 


152      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

these  ladies  were  having  a  piazza  tea  when  both 
pigs,  believing  themselves  invited,  had  accepted 
the  tacit  invitation  and  had  joyfully  essayed 
to  mount  the  steps,  and  were  only  prevented 
by  my  schoolma'am  sister,  who  seized  a  broom 
and  soundly  lambasted  them  as  she  skipped  from 
one  end  of  the  steps  to  the  other,  suffering  no 
caitiff  to  cross  the  moat,  while  the  guests  stood 
on  chairs  and  shrieked  hysteric  directions. 

As  soon  as  I  arrived  the  pigs  recognized  me  with 
joyful  grunts  and  followed  me  across  the  street 
and  into  my  yard,  and  the  siege  was  raised,  the 
ladies  descended  from  chairs,  and  the  subtle  flavor 
of  Best  Hyson,  "Which  do  you  prefer,  lemon 
or  cream  and  sugar?"  stole  across  the  soft  May 
atmosphere.  And  then  with  my  entourage  I  went 
back  to  my  depositions. 

Saturday,  June  1,  191-.  Every  pleasant  first  of 
June  should  be  a  legal  holiday.  More  than  this, 
no  indoor  work  of  any  nature,  beyond  works  of 
necessity  and  mercy,  should  be  allowed  by  law. 
When  a  perfect  summer  day  is  ushered  in  by 
every  bird  in  New  England  with  fluty  trills  and 
warbles  and  chirps  and  grace  notes,  and  the 
grass  is  like  green  velvet  dashed  with  pearls,  and 
the  sky  is  blue  as  in  an  Italian  painting,  and  the 
air  as  soft  and  moist  as  a  baby's  breath,  and  the 
scent  of  lilacs  and  apple  blossoms  and  flowering 


Out  of  Tune  153 

quince,  then  severe  penalties  should  be  visited 
upon  any  one  who  willingly  works  indoors.  And 
I  have  an  engagement  to  hear,  as  referee,  a  case 
that  will  take  at  least  two  days. 

And  I  want  to  be  out,  oh,  I  want  to  be  out 
in  the  open ! 

Finished  case  this  noon.  I  thought  I  was  en 
titled  to  a  half -day  off.  Had  no  sooner  got  to 
work  with  hand  cultivator  when  I  was  notified 
of  juvenile  case  at  Police  Court.  I  dislike  juve 
nile  cases  more  than  any  others.  I  am  afraid  I 
sympathize  altogether  too  much  with  the  de 
linquents.  It  was  not  so  long  ago,  at  least  in 
memory,  that  I  was  a  juvenile  myself. 

Finished  the  case  at  six  o'clock  and  came 
home  thoroughly  out  of  tune.  It  was  a  bad  case, 
a  thoroughly  bad  case,  so  bad  and  so  hopeless 
that  I  had  to  send  two  boys  to  the  State  Indus 
trial  School,  a  gentler  name  for  the  Reform 
School.  And  this  is  a  June  day,  with  birds  sing 
ing,  and  trout  leaping,  and  flowers  blooming,  and 
the  water  in  the  old  swimming  hole  as  warm  as 
milk,  and  everything  calling  one  out  of  doors. 

And  these  were  healthy  boys,  made  for  swim- 
min'  'n'  fishin'  'n'  playin'  baseball,  'n'  trampin' 
in  the  woods  'n'  boatin'  'n'  ever'thing.  And  they 
were  bad.  Not  merely  mischievous  and  high- 
spirited  like  young  puppies,  but  mean  and 
treacherous  and  bad. 


154      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

So  they  had  to  go,  for  their  own  benefit  and 
more  for  the  benefit  of  the  other  small  boys  and 
girls,  whom  their  influence  would  surely  injure. 
But  what  an  awful  thing  to  be  put  away  in  June ! 
Do  you  wonder  that  my  day  is  spoiled? 

Sunday,  June  2,  191-.  The  robins  in  the  nest  in 
the  spruce  tree  are  large  enough  to  stand  up,  and 
they  make  a  prodigious  noise  when  the  old  ones 
feed  them.  As  this  happens  about  every  three 
minutes  from  morning  until  night,  I  am  afraid 
their  noise  will  attract  some  vagrant  cat.  It  would 
be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  a  cat  to  rob 
the  nest.  We  are  all  on  the  lookout.  I  am  going 
to  buy  an  air  rifle.  It  is  accurate  at  up  to  fifty 
yards,  will  sting  a  cat  outrageously,  but  will  not 
injure  it. 

I  think  wandering  cats  should  be  shot  at  sight, 
but  a  genuine  rifle  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  use 
in  a  community. 

I  got  in  a  good  day's  work,  to-day.  The  grass 
on  the  uncultivated  part  of  my  place  is  so  long 
that  I  can  tether  the  cow  and  sheep  there.  I  use 
a  light  steel  chain  attached  with  a  swivel  to  a 
picket  pin  resembling  a  bayonet. 

Monday,  June  3,  191-.  Bought  an  air  rifle  known 
as  a  thousand-shot  rifle.  Not  having  a  dog  I  tried 
it  on  the  cow  at  fifty  yards.  She  gave  a  violent 


Lethal  Weapons  155 

jump,  kicked  up  her  heels  and  shook  her  horns. 
I  think  it  will  be  effective.  When  working  in  my 
garden  I  shall  keep  my  trusty  rifle  ready  to  de 
fend  myself  against  predatory  cats  and  dogs. 
Got  one  shot  to-day  at  a  Maltese  Tom.  He  was 
not  near  the  nest,  but  he  was  on  my  premises. 
He  got  off  my  premises  with  wild  leaps,  magni 
fied  tail,  and  distended  eyeballs. 

Tuesday,  June  4,  191-.  Got  another  shot  at  a 
cat  to-day.  A  big,  rusty  black  cat  with  one  de 
pressed  ear.  He  was  crossing  the  lawn  near  the 
spruce.  I  wonder  why  the  antelope  is  said  to  be 
the  fleetest  animal  that  runs.  I  really  do  not  be 
lieve  the  antelope  lives  that  could  have  kept  up 
with  that  cat  a  moment  after  that  shot  hit  him. 
It  is  interesting  to  be  able  to  so  develop  an 
animal's  capabilities  by  such  simple  means. 
Really  the  rifle  is  a  great  agent  of  reform. 

Wednesday,  June  5,  191-.  Planted  turnips  to 
day.  Think  a  succession  of  turnips  as  necessary 
as  of  corn.  Must  bush  my  peas  soon.  No  game 
to-day.  I  am  forcibly  reminded  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers  who  alternately  cultivated  their  crops 
and  took  pot  shots  at  the  wily  aborigine.  It 
makes  one's  work  more  interesting,  and  if  farm 
ers  would  equip  their  sons  with  artillery  of  this 
sort  more  boys  would  stay  on  the  farm. 


156      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Thursday,  June  6,  191-.  In  a  very  few  days  those 
young  robins  will  be  big  enough  to  leave  the 
nest.  Missed  a  cat  to-day.  The  shot  struck  just 
in  front  of  him  and  he  stopped  short,  then  ran. 
I  pumped  a  couple  more  shots,  but  he  was  out 
of  range.  Oh,  well,  one  cannot  always  hit  the 
mark.  To  see  if  the  rifle  shot  high  or  low,  I  took 
a  shot  at  Galatea  as  she  stood  in  her  pen  facing 
away  from  me.  Made  a  clean  shot.  She  gave  a 
surprised  "Woof!  Woof!"  ran  to  the  other  end 
of  her  pen  and  faced  round  with  her  ears  pricked 
up  and  a  look  of  surprised  interrogation  on  her 
face. 

Friday,  June  7,  191-.  There  is  a  kingbird's  nest 
in  an  old  apple  tree  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  I 
have  never  found  one  before  so  near  the  house. 
I  also  found  a  catbird's  in  the  Von  Hutei  bushes 
surrounding  the  henyard,  and  there  is,  I  am 
sure,  the  nest  of  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak  near. 
I  hear  the  song  mornings,  and  the  businesslike 
snip  of  his  shears  during  the  day,  and  see  him 
frequently,  but  I  can't  locate  the  nest. 

Saturday,  June  8,  191-.  Nailed  a  wicked-looking 
yellow  cat  to-day,  with  a  snaky  neck  and  panther- 
shaped  head.  "He  stood  not  upon  the  order  of 
his  going."  I  wonder  how  long  a  cat  runs  after 
he  is  out  of  sight?  These  speculations  are  vastly 


Tempted  of  the  Devil  157 

interesting  from  a  scientific  and  statistical  stand 
point. 

Sunday.,  June  9,  191-.  My  neighbors  are  for 
the  most  part  church-going,  respectable,  God 
fearing  people.  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  very  popu 
lar  with  them.  While  I  worked  in  my  garden  on 
my  knees  to-day,  as  that  position  is  less  osten 
tatious  and  also  very  effective  in  weeding,  I  was 
practically  hidden.  As  I  looked  at  them  pac 
ing  solemnly  along  in  their  best  clothes,  with 
thoughts  attuned  to  sacred  things,  I  thought 
how  easy  it  would  be  to  change  the  most  devout, 
the  most  kindly,  the  most  gentle  among  them 
into  a  ravening  wolf,  seeking  my  blood  with 
blasphemous  language. 

Just  a  careful  aim  at  a  manly  leg  encased  in 
summer  trousers,  a  frenzied  jump,  a  wild  yell, 
and  the  thing  were  done,  and  a  lifetime,  perhaps, 
of  good  works  and  resolutions  shattered  beyond 
redemption.  I  thought  of  this  and  stayed  my 
hand,  but  I  felt  the  old  longing  which  got  me 
into  so  much  trouble  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Monday,  June  10, 191-.  If  the  lawn-mower  had 
been  invented  in  the  days  of  the  "Glory  that 
was  Greece  and  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome," 
I  feel  sure  that  all  the  convicted  criminals  and 
slaves  would  not  have  been  chained  to  the  heavy 


158      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

oars  of  the  trireme.  If  it  were  a  question  now  as 
to  whether  I  would  prefer  to  be  a  galley  slave 
or  a  lawn-mower  slave,  I  am  uncertain  as  to 
which  I  would  prefer.  No,  I  will  take  that  back. 
I  am  sure  I  should  prefer  the  galleys  to  the 
mower,  for  I  could  work  on  the  galleys  sitting 
down. 

Tuesday,  June  11,  191-.  I  think  my  wife  is  over 
doing  the  salad  business.  Just  because  my  let 
tuce  has  headed  beautifully  there  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  be  compelled  or  even  expected  to 
eat  lettuce  salad  twice  a  day. 

Wednesday,  June  12,  191-.  Got  up  at  five  o'clock 
and  tramped  into  the  woods  for  bushes  for  my 
telephone  peas. 

I  saw  almost  every  sort  and  condition  of  bird 
that  ever  breeds  in  New  Hampshire,  and  I  found 
more  nests  than  I  had  seen  since  a  boy.  Then 
just  before  I  came  back  there  was  a  whining 
sound,  and  a  mother  partridge  threw  herself  al 
most  at  my  feet,  limping,  fluttering,  dying  ap 
parently.  But  I  had  seen  partridges  and  I  froze 
as  she  was  signalling  her  chicks  to  do.  After  a 
few  minutes,  seeing  that  I  made  no  move  and 
believing  her  chicks  safe,  she  shot  away  like  a 
bullet  and  went  winnowing  through  the  tree- 
trunks  and  out  of  sight. 


The  Call  of  the  Wild  159 

Then  I  looked  carefully  after  her  chicks  and 
at  last  I  found  one.  It  was  motionless.  I  took 
it  in  my  hand  where  it  crouched  without  mak 
ing  a  sound  or  motion.  What  a  tiny  little  russet 
midget  it  was !  To  the  ordinary  observer  it  would 
be  difficult  to  distinguish  it  from  a  full-blooded, 
black-red  game  bantam  chick.  But  to  one  who 
knows,  there  is  a  wide  difference,  not  the  least  of 
which  is  the  indescribable  mark  of  the  wild  bird. 
Then  I  put  it  down  carefully  and  walked  away, 
using  the  utmost  care  not  to  step  on  a  crouch 
ing  chick.  A  few  yards  from  the  chick  and  I 
looked  back.  I  could  not  see  it.  Had  it  stolen 
away?  If  so  it  had  disobeyed  its  mother,  who 
had  told  it  to  freeze  and  to  stay  frozen.  Care 
fully  I  tiptoed  back.  Sure  enough  it  was  there 
and  had  not  moved,  but  its  protective  color  had 
blended  so  closely  with  the  dead  leaves  that  I 
could  not  have  found  it  again  had  I  not  known 
where  it  was. 

Then  I  carefully  walked  away  and  left  it.  If  I 
had  had  time  enough  I  should  have  waited  and 
watched  for  the  return  of  the  mother,  but  I  was 
due  at  the  farm  and  I  hurried  home,  having  for 
gotten  all  about  my  bushes  for  the  peas  in  my 
interest  in  the  birds.  On  the  whole,  I  believe  I 
won't  bush  the  peas.  I  think  a  few  stakes  and 
some  strong  cord  will  do  equally  well.  I  cannot 
get  bushes  without  going  into  the  woods,  and 


160      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

I  find  I  cannot  be  trusted  to  remember  anything 
in  the  woods. 

Lettuce  salad  twice  to-day. 

Thursday,  June  13,  191-.  There  is  going  to  be  a 
hunger  strike  at  my  place  soon.  Hard  manual 
labor  and  not  time  enough  to  finish  anything 
demands  food  of  a  coarse  and  sustaining  nature 
three  times  a  day.  I  am  not  a  rabbit. 

Friday,  June  14,  191-.  Some  one  said  something 
about  the  big  baseball  game  between  Exeter  and 
Andover  coming  off  to-morrow.  Am  I  going?  I 
am  not. 

Saturday,  June  15,  191-.  My  usual  luck/ Police 
Court  all  the  afternoon,  when  I  was  intending 
to  take  a  half -day  off  and  (no,  I  was  not  going  to 
the  game)  spray  my  potatoes.  I  did  not  finish 
the  case  until  five  o'clock.  It  was  the  usual  fool 
quarrel  that  ended  in  a  fight  with  all  hands  join 
ing  in  a  free-for-all.  What  a  waste  of  time,  money 
and  energy!  How  much  more  satisfactory  it 
would  have  been  to  have  the  principals  in  the 
affair  fight  it  out  under  the  Marquis  of  Queens- 
berry's,  or  the  London  Prize  Ring  rules,  fighters 
to  break  at  the  referee's  order,  one-half  minute 
rounds,  no  hitting  in  clinches. 


A  Hunger  Strike  161 

Then  the  matter  would  have  proved  interest 
ing,  the  parties  would  have  been  satisfied,  honor 
would  have  been  appeased,  and  a  permanent 
peace  would  have  been  established.  As  it  is, 
every  one  is  mad  with  every  one  else,  and  both 
parties  are  mad  with  me,  the  party  convicted 
and  fined  perhaps  justifiably  so,  and  the  com 
plainant  because  of  the  fact  that  I  did  not  sen 
tence  the  respondent  to  jail. 

And  I  have  not  sprayed  my  potatoes  because 
I  had  to  mow  a  double  allowance  for  that  insa 
tiable  cow,  as  to-morrow  is  Sunday.  All  the  time 
I  was  mowing,  crowds  of  Exeter  people  were 
rushing  from  the  ballfield,  waving  crimson  ban 
ners  and  probably  pitying  the  unfortunate  old 
man  who  was  compelled  to  work  on  a  lawn  while 
a  game  was  going  on. 

Sunday,  June  16,  191-.  The  strike  is  on.  Did 
great  work  in  garden.  Crops  fairly  jumping 
ahead. 

Monday,  June  17,  191-.  Strike  called  off.  Com 
promise.  My  wife  may  have  all  the  lettuce  and 
other  salads  she  wants.  I  don't  have  to  wait,  but 
may  pitch  into  the  essentials  and  get  back  to 
work.  After  a  couple  of  hours  of  hard  work  the 
essentials  are  corned  beef,  roast,  steak  and  onions, 
and  like  Christian  food. 


162      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Tuesday,  June  18,  191-.  I  have  been  expecting  a 
sizable  check  from  my  publishers.  I  don't  like 
to  use  money  earned  in  my  profession  to  pay  for 
my  fads.  I  periodically  receive  checks  for  books 
I  have  occasionally  published.  If  it  were  not  for 
these  checks  I  don't  see  how  I  could  indulge  in 
the  expensive  pastime  of  even  limited  farming. 

Wednesday,  June  19,  191-.  Thank  Heaven  I  can 
eke  out  the  rations  of  my  pigs  with  green  stuff 
from  the  garden.  The  price  of  grain  gives  me  food 
for  very  serious  thought.  Still,  there  is  no  use 
worrying,  for  my  check  is  about  due.  I  never 
speculate  about  the  amount.  There  is  no  use  in 
doing  that.  When  it  comes  it  will  be  very  welcome. 
I  am  feeding  as  little  grain  as  possible. 

Thursday,  June  20,  191-.  No  check  to-day.  A 
watched  pot  never  boils.  Still  the  periodical 
visit  of  the  mail  carrier  makes  me  feel  a  bit  as 
I  feel  while  waiting  for  the  jury  to  come  in. 

Friday,  June  21,  191-.  Jury  still  out. 

Saturday,  June  22, 191-.  The  mail  carrier  brought 
me  a  letter  from  a  different  publisher  of  mine. 
I  opened  it  with  the  feeling  of  expectation  one 
has  when,  at  Christmas  or  on  his  birthday,  he 
finds  a  package  at  his  plate  at  breakfast. 


A  Verdict  163 

The  letter  was  as  follows: 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  The  apparent  impossibility  of  sell 
ing  any  more  copies  of  your  book  entitled  * ' 

renders  a  new  edition  unnecessary.  One  binder  in 
sists  that  he  must  have  the  space  now  occupied 

by  the  sheets  of  ' '  and  he  obliges  us  to 

remove  them  muy  pronto  if  not  prior  thereto. 

"Will  pack  and  send  sheets  to  you  for  ex 
penses  of  packing  and  freightage  or  sell  them  for 
old  paper,  as  you  prefer." 

I  laid  down  this  reassuring  epistle.  And  this 
was  one  of  the  books  that  I  was  relying  on  to 
boost  my  farming  enterprise. 

Well,  I  have  the  other  report  due  at  this  time. 
Cheer  up!  It  is  always  darkest  just  before  the 
dawn.  Something  is  always  turning  up.  Only  this 
morning  I  got  a  terrific  bill  for  grain. 

Sunday,  June  23,  191-.  Worked  all  day  and 
broke  the  Sabbath  into  many  and  jagged  pieces. 

Monday,  June  24,  191-.  Jury  still  out,  at  least 
the  first  jury.  I  think  I  ought  to  have  a  good  ver 
dict  to  make  up  for  the  hard  luck  of  yesterday. 
However,  I  did  not  let  it  interfere  with  my  farm 
work.  If  I  get  the  doldrums,  a  few  miles'  prome 
nade  in  the  rear  of  that  infernal  lawn-mower 
never  fails  to  divert  my  thoughts.  It  is  a  relief 
to  have  something  to  swear  at.  I  am  becoming 


164      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

very  fluent  and  am  daily  adding  to  a  very  com 
prehensive  vocabulary.  If  the  jury  brings  in  any 
thing  but  a  substantial  verdict,  I  shall  have  to 
coin  a  few  more  original  cusswords.  There  is  a 
wealth  of  cusswords  still  uncoined. 

Tuesday.,  June  25,  191-.  I  forgot  to  make  a  note 
of  the  date  when  the  young  robins  left  the  nest, 
but  it  was  about  a  week  ago.  I  think  we  did  not 
lose  one  and  they  can  all  fly  now.  I  got  several 
shots  at  cats  and  hastened  their  departure  beyond 
belief.  I  believe  the  cat  is  the  lineal  descendent 
of  the  cheetah  which  can  even  overtake  the  ante 
lope.  It  has  the  faculty,  however,  of  running  long 
distances  which  the  cheetah  cannot  do.  The  cat  is 
a  very  quick  starter.  At  the  sting  of  the  shot  the 
cat  is  in  the  air  clawing  for  speed,  and  getting  it 
every  time. 

I  expect  every  day  that  the  robins  will  build 
again.  There  are  three  other  robins'  nests  in  the 
yard  with  young  birds  in  them.  I  am  becoming 
a  terror  to  predatory  cats.  In  fact,  during  the  sum 
mer  season  every  cat  of  whatever  station  is  a 
predatory  cat 

Wednesday,  June  26,  19 1-.  Jury  came  in  to-day. 
I  held  my  breath  with  expectation  as  I  took  the 
letter,  placed  it  with  apparent  carelessness  on 
my  desk,  and  continued  my  conversation  with  a 


A  Facer  165 

client.  When  he  retired,  after  an  unconscionably 
long  consultation,  I  took  up  my  letter.  It  is  my 
custom  to  leave  to  the  last  that  one  that  I  am 
sure  will  be  pleasantest  of  the  lot,  so  as  to  quit 
with  a  sweet  taste  in  my  mouth. 

For  instance,  the  first  letter  I  get  from  my 
daughter  at  her  school,  after  I  have  sent  a  check 
for  her  monthly  expense  account  and  a  trifle  over 
for  good  measure  and  other  things,  I  leave  to  the 
last  because  I  know  it  will  be  funny,  bright,  and 
interesting.  And  this  I  do  with  several  in  succes 
sion  until  toward  the  end  of  the  month.  Then  I 
read  that  letter  first  to  know  the  worst  and  make 
out  a  check  and  have  it  over. 

So  following  this  custom  I  read  my  other  let 
ters  through  carefully  and  made  pencil  memo 
randa  as  a  guide  for  answers.  Then  with  a  pleas 
ant  feeling  of  expectation  I  took  up  my  pub 
lisher's  letter  and  opened  it  with  deliberation, 
unfolded  the  enclosures,  and  had  a  touch  of  heart 
failure  when  I  saw  no  check.  My  symptoms  be 
came  more  marked  as  I  read  the  semi-annual 
report : 

To  14  copies  " — "atlSc.  royalty  $2.10         By  10  copies  sent  author  at  cost  price     $6.50 
21      "      "  — "atlSc.       "          3.15                5     "  2.50 

19      "      "—"at   9c.       "          1.71  7     "         4.90 


Total  sales 
Due  from  author 


$13.90  $13.90 

I  put  the  envelope  down  mechanically,  lit  a 
cigarette  and  puffed  violently.  Then  I  read  the 


166      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

report  carefully  and  added  the  columns.  The  fig 
ures  were  correct.  I  owed  my  publisher  six  dol 
lars  and  ninety-four  cents.  Well,  it  is  lucky  that 
I  still  have  a  fairly  remunerative  law  practice 
and  had  the  good  sense  not  to  quit  it  for  litera 
ture.  I  am  not  a  shining  success  as  a  lawyer,  but 
I  make  a  little  more  than  a  comfortable  living 
and  I  do  not  have  to  pay  for  the  privilege. 

I  drew  my  check  for  the  amount  and  sent  it 
off.  One  thing  my  profession  has  taught  me;  not 
to  waste  time  in  worrying  over  an  adverse  ver 
dict,  however  unexpected. 

Thursday,  June  27,  191-.  Had  my  first  peas  from 
garden  to-day.  Served  in  a  restaurant  they  would 
have  been  billed  as  "Petits  Pois  au  Beurre." 
They  were  delicious,  if  somewhat  immature. 

Friday,  June  28,  191-.  I  am  acquiring  a  pro 
nounced  tan,  and  my  hands  are  hard.  The  early 
crop  of  blisters  has  completely  disappeared. 

Saturday,  June  29,  191-.  Cutworms  are  causing 
me  some  loss  and  annoyance.  They  have  rather 
more  than  decimated  my  cabbage  plants  and 
cauliflowers.  There  is  a  certain  "stern  joy  that 
warriors  feel"  in  squashing  them.  They  are  ex 
ceedingly  pulpy  and  therefore  squashable. 


I  Mortify  my  Wife  167 

Sunday,  June  30, 191-.  An  unfortunate  thing  hap 
pened  this  morning.  I  tethered  my  cow  in  the 
grass,  driving  the  pin  to  the  head  in  rather  solid 
turf.  It  would  seem  that  any  reasonable  cow 
would  have  been  satisfied  to  remain  in  lush  grass 
to  her  knees.  But  not  this  thief  of  the  world,  for 
she  took  advantage  of  my  protracted  absence 
in  the  pigpen,  which  I  was  industriously  and 
malodorously  cleaning,  scraping,  and  bedding,  to 
pull  up  her  picket  pin  and  strike  a  beeline  for  my 
cabbages  where  she  ate  almost  my  entire  crop  be 
fore  I  appeared  in  rubber  boots  and  amid  hideous 
profanity. 

The  Professor  of  English  who  lives  next  to  me 
was  at  that  time  escorting  to  church  a  distin 
guished  Doctor  of  Divinity,  a  College  President, 
and  a  Y.M.C.A.  officer,  who  were  to  conduct 
services  in  the  Academy  Chapel  that  morning, 
and  apparently  the  entire  population  of  the 
street,  with  my  exception,  were  hastening  to 
attend  the  services  in  question,  when  I  burst 
upon  the  scene  and  took  up  the  chase  of  the  cow 
around  the  yard,  voicing  my  opinions. in  tones 
that  could  have  been  heard  in  a  deaf-mute  sani 
tarium. 

This  unfortunate  occurrence  mortified  my  wife 
beyond  measure  and,  I  am  afraid,  did  not  im 
prove  my  standing  in  the  community.  But  there 
are  some  things  that  no  mere  mortal  can  bear 


168      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

without  sinful  repinings,  sometimes  expressed  in 
a  high  key;  and  whatever  my  standing,  I  do  not 
have  any  difficulty  in  persuading  them  to  accept 
specimens  of  my  farm  produce  when  carefully 
washed  and  neatly  packed. 

Of  course  it  is  embarrassing  to  one's  friends 
to  be  held  up  in  pulpits  as  a  bad  example,  but 
really  there  are  worse  people  than  I.  Not  many, 
perhaps,  but  occasionally  such  are  mentioned  in 
the  newspapers  as  malefactors  of  great  wealth, 
thieves,  robbers,  and  highwaymen. 

It  seems  scarcely  possible  that  July  will  come 
in  to-morrow,  the  hot,  dry  month.  I  have  added 
scythe-mowing  to  my  lot  of  accomplishments. 
The  grass  has  got  so  long  in  the  field  part  of  my 
farm  that  I  use  the  scythe.  I  was  advised  to  buy 
several  blades.  It  was  good  advice. 

Monday,  July  1,  191-.  Time  was  when  I  should 
have  been  hoarding  every  penny  for  the  Fourth 
and  thinking  that  the  Fourth  would  never  come. 
Now  I  am  grudging  the  days  that  fly  past  and 
hoarding  every  penny  to  keep  abreast  of  the  high 
prices. 

Tuesday,  July  2,  191-.  I  am  learning  something 
about  scythe-mowing.  I  was  told  to  always  keep 
my  heel  down.  To  obey  instructions,  which  did 
not  specify  which  heel,  the  right  or  left,  I  walked, 


Scythe  Mowing  169 

when  mowing,  flat-footed,  and  thereby  kept  both 
heels  down.  I  now  find  that  it  was  the  heel  of 
the  scythe  that  I  was  to  keep  down.  I  learned 
this  too  late  to  save  three  scythe  blades.  I  did  not 
break  them,  but  left  them  looking  somewhat  like 
gigantic  flattened  corkscrews  or  Malay  kris  or 
the  spiral  horns  of  a  South  African  koodoo. 

Wednesday,  July  3,  191-.  I  have  one  scythe  blade 
left.  I  know  how  to  mow  now.  I  also  put  in  my 
daily  promenade  behind  the  lawn-mower,  but 
the  dry  weather  has  shortened  my  beat.  My  pigs 
are  a  delight  to  the  eye. 

Thursday,  July  4, 191-.  Holiday  and  cool  enough 
to  make  a  fine  work  day.  I  put  in  almost  the  en 
tire  day,  mowing,  cultivating,  cleaning  up,  hoeing 
and  other  work. 

Friday,  July  5,  191- .  Glad  I  did  so  much  work 
yesterday.  Tried  a  case  before  a  referee  to-day 
that  left  me  no  time  for  the  farm.  It  is  true  that 
the  law  is  a  jealous  mistress.  Still,  a  man  must 
have  some  exercise  to  avoid  going  stale.  On  the 
whole,  I  think  I  get  it. 

Saturday,  July  6,  191-.  A  thunderstorm  in  the 
night  turned  into  a  steady  rain  which  lasted  all 
day.  I  was  disappointed  at  not  being  able  to 


170      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

work  in  the  garden,  but  found  enough  to  do  in 
the  barn,  including  oiling  the  pigs.  I  bought  a 
patent  oiler  which  so  far  no  skilled  artisan  in 
this  vicinity  has  been  able  to  set  up.  I  find  a 
currycomb  dipped  in  oil  very  soothing  to  the  pigs. 
Indeed,  I  find,  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  that 
a  currycomb  is  appreciated  by  pigs  and  cows 
much  more  than  by  horses.  Also  that  a  cow's 
coat  will  take  a  polish  much  more  readily  than 
will  a  horse's  coat. 

Sunday,  July  7,  191-.  Some  young  chipper  birds 
are  out  of  the  nest.  Although  they  are  less  con 
spicuous  than  young  robins  and  much  better 
flyers,  yet  I  am  minded  of  the  injunction,  "In 
time  of  peace  prepare  for  war."  And  I  have  got 
out  my  rifle  once  more.  Saw  the  droop-eared  Tom 
walking  on  the  fence  to-day.  It  was  a  fine  target 
and  I  felt  sure  I  scored  a  bull's-eye.  In  trying  to 
jump  off  on  both  sides  of  the  fence  at  once  he  de 
layed  long  enough  for  me  to  get  in  another  shot. 
He  may  be  running  yet.  He  started  as  if  he  never 
meant  to  stop.  I  wish  he  never  would. 

By  this  simple,  homely,  but  effective  agency 
I  try  to  instil  into  the  minds  of  vagrant  Toms  a 
warning  to  keep  their  distance. 

Monday,  July  8,  19 1-.  With  fresh  milk  and 
cream,  fresh  eggs,  peas,  string  beans,  beet 


Blight  171 

greens,  chard,  and  radishes,  life  seems  one  grand 
song. 

Tuesday.,  July  9,  191-.  Still  singing.  Nailed  a  cat 
wearing  a  nickel-plated  collar  to-day.  She  did  not 
stop  long  enough  for  me  to  read  the  inscription 
thereon.  Indeed,  he  who  runs  would  have  had 
to  be  a  phenomenal  sprinter  to  have  read  it. 

Wednesday,  July  10,  191-.  Planted  turnips  again 
to-day.  Also  sprayed  potatoes. 

Thursday,  July  11,  191-.  Some  sort  of  infernal 
bug  or  decay  or  blight  has  struck  one  of  my  rows 
of  beans.  Yesterday  they  were  green  and  fair  to 
look  upon.  To-day  between  dawn  and  noontide 
they  have  turned  a  dark  brown,  leaves,  fruit,  and 
stems,  and  have  dried  up  as  if  they  had  been 
scorched  by  the  flames  of  burning  Ilium. 

"Yesterday  they  might  have  stood  against  the  world, 
Now  none  so  poor  to  do  them  reverence." 

I  at  once  took  counsel  with  the  hardware  man 
who  sells  all  sorts  of  anti-bug  mixtures.  He  told 
me  to  pluck,  pile,  and  burn  at  once  the  affected 
plants.  Then  to  spray  the  undersides  of  the  plant 
with  a  certain  liquid  designated  by  a  series  of 
numbers  neatly  embossed  on  the  can  in  scarlet 
letters. 

I  took  the  can,  and  at  his  suggestion  bought 


172      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

a  new  hand-sprayer,  notified  my  clerk  that  urgent 
business  matters  required  my  instant  presence 
at  the  farm,  and  hurried  thither  with  my  can  and 
squirt  gun.  I  at  once  pulled  every  plant  in  the  in 
fected  row,  piled  them,  poured  on  a  liberal  liba 
tion  of  kerosene,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  were 
reduced  to  the  finest  ashes.  Then  I  unscrewed  the 
cap  of  the  can,  sniffed  once,  replaced  the  cap  with 
averted  face  and  trembling  fingers,  and  took  a 
hurried  walk. 

Now,  I  have  smelled  horrid  odors  full  many  a 
time.  Any  man  who  has  dealt  with  all  sorts  of 
animals  and  all  sorts  of  humans,  as  I  have,  has 
taught  himself  to  weather  almost  every  variety 
of  odors  without  repining.  Up  to  this  time  the 
most  awful  odor  I  ever  experienced  was  when, 
on  returning  from  a  two  weeks'  vacation  with 
my  family,  I  found  I  had  neglected  to  remove 
from  an  old-fashioned  refrigerator  a  few  dozen 
frogs'  legs,  and  as  a  result  I  had  to  give  the  re 
frigerator  to  a  junkman  upon  the  condition  that 
he  would  remove  it  instantly  and  without  argu 
ment  or  examination. 

But  the  dreadf  ulness  of  the  odor  was  as  nothing 
compared  to  the  acute  and  amazing  villainy  of  the 
smell  of  this  compound.  I  would  n't  have  used 
it  if  my  entire  crop  was  at  stake,  and  after 
playing  the  garden  hose  on  it  for  a  while  I  buried 
the  sealed  can  in  the  garden,  and  sprayed  the 


Whew!  173 

rest  of  the  beans  with  the  usual  preparation.  It 
may  be  effective  and  may  not.  Just  at  this  mo 
ment  I  do  not  care  particularly.  I  have  washed 
my  hands  with  every  sort  of  soap,  but  although 
none  of  that  dreadful  remedy  touched  them,  I 
can  still  smell  it.  I  wonder  if  I  always  shall. 

Friday,  July  12, 191-.  We  have  peas  at  least  three 
times  a  week.  Regular  gorges.  Somewhere  I  have 
heard  or  read  that 

"The  honest  farmer,  who  by  intelligent  toil 
Tills  the  soil, 
Will  surely  win  respect." 

I  have  quoted  this,  but  I  have  n't  the  least  idea 
where  I  got  it. 

Saturday,  July  13,  191-.  Two  more  broods  of 
young  robins  are  hopping  round  the  yard.  One 
brood  from  the  big  oak  behind  the  house  and  one 
from  the  Porter  apple  tree  in  the  orchard.  Broke 
the  spring  of  my  rifle  to-day.  I  could  not  get  a 
new  one  in  town  and  have  sent  to  Boston.  Worked 
all  day  on  farm. 

Sunday,  July  14, 191-.  That  infernal  droop-eared 
cat  got  a  young  robin  to-day.  I  heard  the  cries 
of  the  parent  birds  and  of  a  dozen  others  coming 
to  the  rescue  and  I  ran  toward  the  noise.  I  was 
in  time  to  see  the  cat  with  the  bird  in  its  mouth 


174      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

dash  over  the  fence  and  disappear  in  the  bushes 
on  the  adjoining  place.  I  yelled  for  Dick  to  bring 
his  gun  and  he  responded  with  two  and  a  dozen 
shells.  We  quartered  over  the  ground  for  a  half- 
hour,  but  did  not  find  the  cat.  I  have  thought 
of  it  all  day.  Damn  cats,  anyway! 

Monday,  July  15,  191-.  Too  busy  at  the  office  to 
do  more  than  the  routine  work  on  the  farm,  milk 
ing,  feeding,  cleaning  stalls,  etc. 

Tuesday,  July  16,  191-.  A  heavy  thunder-shower 
to-day.  Juvenile  Court  to-day  in  my  private  of 
fice.  I  don't  believe  the  boys  are  very  much 
afraid  of  me. 

Wednesday,  July  17,  191-.  This  noon  I  had  a 
great  stroke  of  luck.  I  had  finished  my  dinner, 
fed  my  animals,  and  was  doing  a  little  weeding 
on  my  hands  and  knees  when  I  heard-  the  frantic 
cries  of  the  robins  and  the  agonized  chirping  of  a 
young  bird.  I  jumped  up  in  time  to  see  old  droop- 
ear  leaping  across  the  garden  with  a  shrieking 
young  bird  in  its  mouth.  Suddenly  it  leaped  fran 
tically  in  the  air,  turned  a  somersault,  sprang  up, 
and  then  crumpled  in  a  heap.  Dick  who  had  just 
come  out,  equipped  for  a  trap  shoot,  had  fired 
twice  as  the  cat  raced  across  the  yard,  and  both 
shots  had  taken  effect.  The  bird  was  dead,  but 


Requiescat  175 

not  from  the  shot,  and  best  of  all  the  cat  was  dead. 
I  took  the  greatest  possible  enjoyment  in  con 
ducting  a  little  private  funeral. 

Thursday,  July  18,  191-.  My  corn  is  up  to  my 
shoulders  now  and  is  beginning  to  spindle.  The 
high-water  mark  of  amateur  farming  is  getting 
a  couple  of  dozen  ears  of  sweet  corn  and  making 
a  dinner  of  them. 

Friday,  July  19,  191-.  My  cow  broke  out  of  jail 
to-day,  but  was  rounded  up  before  she  did  much 
damage.  My  clerk  starts  on  her  vacation  of  two 
weeks  Monday.  I  shall  have  to  stick  to  the  office. 
Farming  will  receive  a  very  severe  setback. 

Saturday,  July  20,  191-.  Worked  with  clerk  all 
day  in  office. 

Sunday,  July  21,  191-.  Busy  at  the  office.  Some 
times  I  think  hot  weather  makes  for  litigation. 
Why  not?  Hot  weather  makes  the  average  man 
uncomfortable  and  therefore  touchy.  I  have 
heard  that  all  professional  cooks  are  quick-tem 
pered  and  ready  with  a  rolling-pin,  and  that  this 
is  a  direct  result  of  the  heat  in  which  they  work. 
Well,  if  that  is  the  case,  I  wish  it  would  cool  off, 
for  I  don't  feel  particularly  like  trying  cases.  It 
is  just  the  weather  to  draw  briefs  and  bills  in 


176      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

equity  and  declarations,  and  to  take  one's  time 
at  it.  Then,  after  a  day  at  it,  it  is  delightful,  in 
the  cool  of  the  afternoon,  to  get  into  one's  old 
clothes  and  do  farm  work. 

Monday,  July  22,  191-.  It  has  rained  all  day.  A 
steady,  slanting  rain.  It  has  been  good  to  sit  at 
my  old  battered  desk,  and  to  look  out  over  the 
square,  and  to  see  the  slanting  lines  of  rain  pour 
ing  down  on  the  pavements,  and  to  smell  the  soft 
air.  For  the  past  two  weeks  the  farmers  have 
been  haying  and  to-day  they  are  probably  trying 
to  catch  up  with  their  indoor  work. 

Nobody  has  been  in  the  office,  and  although 
there  is  plenty  of  work  to  do,  I  don't  feel  in  the 
mood,  and  sit  and  look  out  over  the  square,  and 
plan  my  farm  work,  and  think  over  the  handicaps 
I  have  been  laboring  under,  and  what  fun  it  has 
all  been. 

Indeed,  when  I  sought  anew  to  turn  my  modest 
estate  into  a  miniature  stock  and  truck  farm,  I 
did  not  fully  realize  some  of  the  responsibilities 
I  was  ignorantly  shouldering. 

There  are  dangers,  on  the  physical  side,  of 
breaks,  strains,  sprains,  contusions,  bites,  kicks, 
and  crowdings  in  the  stalls.  Only  yesterday  morn 
ing  I  was  leaning  over  my  cow's  back  and  giving 
her  a  particularly  thorough  rubdown  under  the 
big  elm  in  front  of  the  barn,  when  the  maid  clum- 


Diplomacy  177 

sily  poked  an  ironing-board  through  a  window 
taking  out  several  panes  of  glass  and  the  attend 
ant  sash,  and  causing  that  patient  and  milk-in 
fested  animal  to  make  a  demi-volte  which  carried 
me  for  a  considerable  distance  in  a  position  simi 
lar  to  that  of  a  towel  on  a  towel  rack. 

Of  course,  when  such  things  are  done  by  a 
trained  acrobat  in  a  circus  they  seldom  injure 
the  performer,  but  when  performed  involuntarily 
by  a  more  than  middle-aged  farmer  of  little  train 
ing  for  that  particular  stunt,  the  result  is  fre 
quently  painful  if  not  lasting. 

Then  again  one  owes  a  duty  to  one's  neigh 
bors,  who  may  not  be  wildly  enthusiastic  over 
the  change  from  smooth  lawns,  and  comparative 
peace  and  quietude,  to  potato  and  turnip  patches 
and  the  homely  sounds  and  scents  of  the  barn 
yard.  And  so  I  endeavor  to  be  very  diplomatic 
in  all  my  moves  in  relation  to  my  farm  and  the 
introduction  of  animals  alien  to  the  quiet  and 
aristocratic  habits  of  the  people  dwelling  in  my 
neighborhood. 

Were  I  to  do  otherwise,  I  fear  that  neighbor 
hood  reciprocity  might  take  the  form  of  criminal 
prosecutions  or  of  poisoned  potatoes.  But  a 
timely  pitcher  of  cream  will  do  much  to  avoid  the 
operation  of  the  lex  talionis;  and  a  few  dozen 
of  golden  bantam  corn  is  a  panacea  for  all  evils 
arising  from  strained  neighborly  relations. 


178      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Another  thing  one  has  to  consider;  the  smell 
of  barnyard  animals  is  not  unpleasant  in  its  na 
tive  heath,  but  when  carried  to  other  localities, 
such  as  to  dwellings,  churches,  both  for  religious 
and  social  purposes,  public  meetings  in  crowded 
halls,  secret  society  visitations  and  public  in 
stallations,  it  is  sniffingly  resented  by  the  cap 
tious,  and  one  finds  himself  the  target  for  re 
sentful  and  reproachful  looks  and  indignant 
sniffs,  and  the  rungs  of  the  social  ladder  exceed 
ingly  difficult  to  climb. 

Then  again  a  quick-tempered  man,  such  as  I 
am,  ought  to  be  a  bit  —  quite  a  bit  —  circum 
spect.  It  must  never  happen  again  that  the  Pro 
fessor  of  English,  whose  study  windows  over 
hang  my  garden  fence,  be  so  seriously  annoyed 
as  he  was  some  time  ago,  when,  having  gathered 
a  bevy  of  local  savants  to  discuss  the  recondite 
beauty  of  Chaucer's  "Troilus  and  Cressida," 
they  were  scandalized  by  a  burst  of  objurgation, 
delivered  by  me  in  hoarse  and  impassioned  tones, 
as  I  passed  his  windows  at  terrific  speed  in  a 
perspiring,  panting,  and  profane  pursuit  of  an 
escaped  pig. 

And  I  am  quite  sure  that  the  superintendent  of 
the  Sunday  School,  who  lives  across  the  street, 
will  never  fully  forgive  me  for  compelling  his 
class  of  young  men  who  had  gathered  at  his 
house  for  Y.M.C.A.  discussion,  to  listen  to  a 


Neighborly  Kindness  179 

soliloquy  delivered  by  me  with  all  the  strength 
of  my  lungs  and  the  stimulating  influence  of  a 
vivid  imagination,  at  viewing  the  remains  of 
about  four  dollars'  worth  of  cauliflower  plants 
that  had  suffered  from  a  joint  attack  of  all  the 
cutworms  in  the  vicinity  overnight. 

And  yet  my  neighbors  have  been  exceedingly 
kind  and  considerate.  They  have  borne  much 
from  me,  possibly  more  than  I  would  have  borne 
from  them  had  the  conditions  been  reversed. 
They  have  even  tried  to  help  me.  Indeed,  their 
attentions  have  at  times  been  positively  embar 
rassing.  I  am  constantly  receiving  kindly  offers 
of  assistance.  One  lady  telephoned  me  to  please 
call  at  her  house  on  my  way  home  from  my  of 
fice.  Anticipating  a  legal  consultation  I  called. 
Judge  of  my  feelings  when  she  led  me  to  the 
back  door,  informing  me  that  when  she  heard 
that  I  had  a  pair  of  pigs  she  had  saved  every  bit 
of  waste  from  her  table  for  a  week,  and  would 
I  please  carry  it  home  to  them. 

What  could  I  say?  She  was  a  kindly  old  lady 
and  her  face  beamed  with  altruism.  I  could  n't 
tell  her  that  I  would  as  soon  feed  pigs  with  rat 
poison  as  with  swill.  I  could  n't  tell  her  to  keep 
her  old  swill  and  eat  it  or  bury  it  or  burn  it  as 
she  pleased. 

And  so  with  loathing  and  rebellion  in  my  heart 
I  almost  dislocated  my  arms  and  strained  my 


180      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

tendons  in  lugging  about  a  hundred  pounds  of 
dreadful  waste  to  my  house  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away. 

Another  lady,  more  considerate  of  my  dignity, 
sent  a  boy  with  a  squeaking  cart  in  which  was  a 
bucket  filled  to  overflowing  with  horrid  stuff. 

Just  out  of  curiosity  and  for  the  purpose  of 
ascertaining  the  probability  of  a  lingering  and 
awful  death  for  my  pigs,  should  I  feed  the  stuff 
to  them,  I  took  as  careful  an  inventory  of  the 
two  buckets  as  the  nature  and  condition  of  their 
contents  allowed.  The  first  bucket  inventoried  as 
follows : 

Item  —  several  quarts  of  dishwater. 

Item  —  the  necks  of  two  broken  bottles  with  wire  at 
tachments. 

Item  —  the  remains  of  the  two  bottles  in  fragments  of 
unassorted  sizes. 

Item  —  the  semi-globular  skins  of  several  muskmelons, 
scraped  so  thin  as  to  be  transparent. 

Item  —  several  roundish  articles  that  I  took  for  char 
coal  (excellent  for  |>igs),  but  which  on  examina 
tion  proved  to  be  hard-baked  and  incinerated 
biscuits. 

Item  —  a  chain  of  safety  pins  strung  together. 

Item  —  a  very  large  "gob"  of  sour  dough. 

Item  —  the  skins  of  several  baked  potatoes. 

Item  —  a  fine-toothed  comb  very  much  the  worse  for 
wear. 

Item  —  a  T  bone  thoroughly  polished. 

Item  —  a  roll  of  twisted  handbills  advertising  an  auc 
tion. 


I  could  n't  tell  her  that  I  would  as  soon  feed  pigs 
with  rat  poison 


Popularity  and  False  Teeth  181 

Item  —  the  yellow  legs  of  a  chicken  and  the  skeleton 
from  which  every  particle  of  meat  had  been 
scraped. 

Item  —  part  of  a  suspender. 

Item  —  various  articles  impossible  to  classify. 

The  second  bucket  analyzed  as  follows: 

Item  —  one  half-dozen  of  "  Curved  Plug  Tobacco " 
tins,  empty. 

Item  —  mass  of  pressed  raw  currants  from  which  the 
life  and  virtue  had  long  since  departed  leaving 
hulls  and  seeds  about  as  nutritious  as  sawdust 
or  chopped  oyster  shells. 

Item  —  about  two  quarts  of  raw  potato  peelings. 

Item  —  ditto  apple  peelings. 

Item  —  cracked  porcelain  doorbell  with  several  yards 
of  wire. 

Item  —  part  of  scrim  curtain  with  broken  stick. 

Item  —  empty  mucilage  bottle  with  brush. 

Item  —  broken  lamp  chimney,  blacked  on  one  side. 

Item  —  lower  set  of  false  teeth  with  red  rubber  gums. 

Item  —  sundry  unrecognizable  articles. 

Item  —  large  quantity  of  slop  containing  many  sub 
stances  in  solution. 

I  removed  the  set  of  teeth,  played  on  them 
with  the  hose,  and  when  they  were  dried,  used 
gloves  to  wrap  them  up  with  and  then  sent  them 
by  mail  to  the  kind  lady.  Think  how  she  must 
have  hunted  and  worried  over  their  loss.  Cer 
tainly  one  good  turn  deserves  another. 

I  have  made  half  promises  to  call  at  other 
houses.  The  situation  is  becoming  critical.  It  is 
perhaps  my  first  and  only  touch  of  popularity. 


182      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

I  don't  like  it  one  single  bit.  Years  ago  with  my 
cronies,  Beany  and  Pewt,  I  drove  a  swill  cart  for 
a  short  time  until  the  failure  of  the  man  that 
employed  us,  but  I  have  been  trying  hard  ever 
since  to  live  it  down.  True,  there  are  several 
ways  of  disposing  of  this  waste.  I  can  burn  it  on 
a  funeral  pyre;  I  can  bury  it,  carrying  the  simile 
one  step  farther;  or  I  can  wait  for  the  shades  of 
evening  and  throw  it  into  the  grove  behind  the 
house  of  the  Professor  of  English.  Which  shall  it 
be?  I  am  really  uncertain  and  dreadfully  in  need 
of  advice. 

But  I  am  determined  that  I  will  not,  even 
to  court  popularity,  become  the  scavenger,  the 
hysena,  the  turkey  buzzard,  the  jackal  of  the 
neighborhood.  I  swear  it. 

Tuesday,  July  23,  191-.  To  take  a  walk  or  ride 
into  the  country  now  and  to  smell  the  freshly 
cured  hay  is  worth  almost  any  sacrifice,  even 
breakfast.  And  if  you  have  lost  your  breakfast, 
it  is  but  four  hours  to  lunch  or  to  dinner,  and 
as  soon  as  you  have  arisen  from  lunch  or  dinner 
you  have  forgotten  the  sacrifice. 

I  took  a  walk  this  morning  after  I  had  finished 
my  barn  work  and  became  so  absorbed  in  the 
delights  of  the  newly  mowed  field  that  it  was 
long  after  breakfast  when  I  got  home,  and  I  had 
an  appointment  at  nine.  I  had  no  breakfast,  not 


The  Hay  Field  183 

even  a  cup  of  coffee,  but  I  kept  my  appointment, 
worked  like  a  pup  until  noon,  and  came  home 
with  a  headache  that  reached  from  the  bridge  of 
my  nose  to  the  back  of  my  neck. 

But  after  a  good  dinner  and  a  cup  of  black 
coffee  I  was  as  good  as  new,  and  could  think  of 
that  beautiful  field  with  its  haycocks,  its  half- 
dozen  nests  of  field  mice  each  full  of  naked  young 
mice;  of  the  two  nests  of  bobolinks  with  the 
young  nearly  full-fledged  and  bearing  the  unmis 
takable  colors  of  the  male  bird's  winter  garb;  of 
the  headless  black  snake  decapitated  as  he  was 
about  to  make  a  meal  of  some  of  these  innocents; 
of  the  numerous  fat  toads,  each  in  the  smooth 
round  shallow  cup  it  had  either  dug  or  worn 
in  the  earth;  of  the  woodchuck's  hole  on  the 
knoll,  with  its  bold  advertisement  of  yellow  sand 
thrown  out  of  a  hole  large  enough  for  a  fox. 

Really  it  was  well  worth  the  loss  of  a  breakfast 
and  the  splitting  headache. 

Wednesday,  July  24,  191-.  Every  time  I  get  a 
chance  to  get  out  into  the  fields  and  woods  I  take 
a  solemn  vow  to  repeat  the  experience  often.  But 
I  seldom  get  the  time  or  take  the  time  to  do  it.  As 
a  boy  and  youth  I  spent  a  third  of  my  time  dur 
ing  the  long  summer  days  and  evenings  on  the 
river,  and  each  spring  I  make  up  my  mind  that 
I  will  buy  a  skiff  or  canoe  and  emulate  the  brave 


184      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

deeds  of  Ossian  as  set  forth  in  his  once  well- 
known  serenade. 

But  I  never  do  it.  I  wonder  why.  Perhaps  old 
man  Osier  may  be  able  to  explain  it.  Hang  Osier, 
anyway. 

Thursday,  July  25,  191-.  I  wish  my  clerk  would 
get  back.  I  don't  mind  sticking  close  to  the  office 
during  office  hours,  but  I  hate  to  take  so  much 
time  out  of  my  evenings  to  write  longhand  let 
ters.  I  wonder  if  I  am  really  the  worst  writer  of 
a  profession  noted  for  the  abandoned  character  of 
its  penmanship?  My  correspondents  are  unani 
mous  in  the  opinion  that  I  am  far  and  away  the 
worst.  I  think  they  are  not  above  prejudice  in 
the  matter. 

However,  it  is  sometimes  convenient  to  be  able 
to  read  your  own  handwriting  in  various  ways.  A 
really  intelligent  man  can  adapt  his  correspond 
ence  to  almost  any  situation  that  may  arise.  It 
is  well  to  make  the  best  out  of  these  peculiarities. 

Friday,  July  26,  191-.  In  almost  every  Christian 
community  except  my  own,  Saturday  afternoon 
is  given  up,  at  least  by  the  lawyers,  to  the  pur 
suit  of  golf  balls.  This  is  the  most  praiseworthy 
undertaking  possible  and  should  be  encouraged 
by  drastic  legislation.  Unfortunately  the  wily 
farmer,  having  worked  intensively  during  the 


An  Accident  185 

entire  week,  takes  Saturday  afternoon  to  renew 
his  supplies  and  to  call  upon  his  lawyer  friends  for 
gratuitous  advice. 

Saturday,  July  27,  191-.  Imagination  is  a  curious 
thing  and  plays  curious  tricks.  Yesterday  my  life 
was  despaired  of  owing  to  a  dreadful  accident 
that  befell  me  when  I  was  in  the  peaceful  per 
formance  of  my  duties  as  a  plain  and  ornamental 
agriculturist  and  stock-breeder.  It  seems  posi 
tively  unjust  that  an 

"Integer  vitce  scelerisque  purus"  — 
or  at  least  reasonably  so  —  who 

"  Non  eget  Mauris  jaculis  neque  arcu  "  — 

or  at  least  is  not  supposed  to  —  should  be  cut 
down  in  his  prime  or  thereabouts  while  doing 
the  plain  and  homely  duties  pertaining  to  home 
agriculture.  Especially  is  this  so,  when  steeple 
jacks  are  steeple-jacking  in  perfect  safety  all  over 
the  country;  when  birdmen  are  loudly  flapping 
their  wings  and  crowing  thousands  of  feet  above 
the  earth,  with  their  life  insurance  policies  still  in 
force;  when  motor-cyclists,  with  their  best  girls 
in  abbreviated  costumes  and  wearing  their  skirts 
about  their  ears,  are  dashing  around  corners  and 
adown  crowded  streets  at  seventy  miles  an  hour 
with  no  danger  to  themselves  and  the  deuce  take 
the  public;  when  all  over  the  country  people  are 


186      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

risking  their  lives  without  mishaps  in  a  thousand 
dare-devil  ways. 

Such  thoughts  crowded  into  my  brain  as  I 
tottered  into  the  house  to  die  yesterday  morn 
ing  and  so  frightened  my  wife  that  I  am  afraid 
she  will  never  be  the  same  woman  again. 

I  had  arisen  unusually  early,  as  there  had 
been  a  heavy  thunder-shower  and  I  could  n't 
sleep.  It  was  still  so  cloudy  that  the  stalls  in  the 
cow  stable  were  rather  dark.  When  I  entered  the 
stall  my  cow  swung  her  head  round  fretfully  and 
stuck  me  a  blow  that  nearly  knocked  the  wind 
out  of  me  for  a  moment.  I  retired  gruntingly  to 
regain  my  wind  so  as  to  more  fully  express  my 
sentiments,  when  to  my  horror  I  found  that  I 
was  covered  with  blood.  She  had  evidently  driven 
her  sharp  horn  deep  into  my  side.  Somehow  I 
felt  but  little  pain,  and  supposed  it  was  from 
the  sudden  paralysis  of  the  nerves.  I  dully 
recollected  that  really  serious  and  fatal  injuries 
are  seldom  painful,  and  I  realized  then  that  if 
I  had  any  alterations  to  make  in  my  will  I  had 
better  see  about  it  as  soon  as  possible.  I  was  evi 
dently  bleeding  to  death  very  rapidly  and  I  did 
not  like  to  be  found  lifeless  in  a  cow  stable  — 

"  Weltering  in  my  gore  "  — 

as  the  victims  of  one  Captain  Kidd  erstwhile  were 
prone  to  do,  according  to  that  delightful  poem. 


Impending  Demise  187 

I  realized,  of  course,  that  a  ligature  or  tourni 
quet,  would,  from  the  locality  of  the  wound,  be 
ineffective  except  to  shut  off  my  wind,  and  that, 
in  the  progress  of  events,  would  be  shut  off  soon 
enough.  So,  holding  my  hand  over  the  jagged 
puncture  in  my  side,  I  walked  feebly,  but  with 
determination,  into  the  house  and  called  my 
wife.  Something  in  the  quiet  precision  of  my 
voice  told  her  that  something  serious  had  hap 
pened,  and  she  came  running  down  in  her  night 
gown,  and  as  soon  as  she  saw  my  blood  she  broke 
into  a  loud  and  exceedingly  bitter  cry. 

She  knew  that  dreadful,  horrid,  dangerous, 
ugly  beast  would  kill  me !  She  never  had  wanted 
me  to  get  her !  I  never  knew  anything  about  cows 
anyway !  Any  one  could  cheat  me,  and  would  sell 
me  kicking  horses  and  hooking  and  goring  cows 
and  all  manner  of  awful  beasts  and  I  might  have 
known  it,  and  she  knew  it  all  the  time  and  knew 
just  what  would  happen,  and  why  could  n't  I 
have  been  contented  to  buy  my  milk  and  not  go 
risking  my  life  every  moment  I  was  in  that  hor 
rid  barn,  not  knowing  anything  about  animals 
and  not  being  able  or  wishing  to  hire  a  man  to 
take  care  of  them  who  knew  something  about 
them,  and  whose  life  or  death  did  n't  amount  to 
anything,  and  who  did  n't  have  any  one  de 
pending  on  him  as  I  did,  etc.,  etc. 

All  the  time  she  had  been  helping  me  to  the 


188      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

couch  in  the  living-room,  for  I  was  growing  very 
faint  and  weak  with  the  loss  of  blood,  while  Dick, 
who  had  come  down  stairs  like  a  man  in  the 
delirium  tremens  pursued  by  centipedal  rattle 
snakes,  was  ringing  up  Central  and  demanding 
why  in  blankety  blank  and  rippety  dash  they 
were  all  asleep  in  the  middle  of  the  day  (Dick 
who  never  gets  up  before  half-past  eight  unless 
he  is  pulled  out  of  bed),  and  telling  the  doctor 
to  come  up  to  the  house,  and  not  caring  a  hang 
if  the  doctor  had  been  up  all  night  on  a  confine 
ment  case,  and  that  it  was  a  case  of  life  or  death, 
and  not  to  wait  to  put  on  his  clothes;  and  then 
he  came  charging  in  with  a  glass  of  whiskey  which 
I  drank  as  if  it  wrere  water. 

While  waiting  for  the  doctor,  we  decided  not 
to  cut  away  my  shirt  from  the  wound,  fearing 
that  the  flow  of  blood,  which  had  somewhat 
slackened,  might  start  again.  So  while  Dick 
held  a  wet  compress  over  my  wound,  my  wife 
bathed  my  head  and  fanned  me,  and  I  gave  Dick 
some  instructions  about  the  management  of  the 
office  after  I  had  been  laid  away.  I  even  made  a 
feeble  quotation: 

"Oh,  bury  Bartholomew  out  in  the  field, 
In  a  beautiful  hole  in  the  ground." 

I  suppose  I  was  somewhat  affected  by  my  pota 
tion  to  which  I  was  unaccustomed. 


A  Delicate  Operation  189 

Then  an  automobile  tore  into  the  yard  and 
a  hastily  dressed  man  without  collar  or  tie,  and 
with  his  coat  and  vest  flapping  open  and  his 
shoelaces  dangling,  hurried  up  the  steps  and  into 
the  room.  As  soon  as  he  saw  my  blood-stained 
form  he  became  at  once  the  cool,  calm,  self- 
possessed,  resourceful  surgeon. 

"  Get  me  a  glass  of  water  and  a  spoon ;  open  that 
window  and  pull  up  that  curtain;  a  washbowl  of 
hot  water."  Then  he  opened  his  bag,  laid  out  his 
shining  knives,  nippers,  clamps,  calipers,  and 
other  cutlery,  spools  of  adhesive  plaster,  rolls  of 
antiseptic  dressing,  and  bottles  of  disinfectants; 
lit  a  little  tin  lamp,  and  a  smell  of  creosote  and 
iodoform  stole  across  the  room. 

Then  he  threw  off  his  coat  and  vest,  rolled  up 
his  sleeves,  and  prepared  to  cauterize  a  few  veins, 
to  tie  up  an  artery  or  two,  and  to  hemstitch  some 
Butterick  patterns  on  my  torso. 

Then  he  wet  a  cloth  in  the  warm  water,  knelt 
by  the  couch  and  carefully  moistened  my  shirt 
over  the  wound,  lifted  it  quickly  and  cut  it  from 
me,  with  a  pair  of  shears.  Then  he  washed  away 
the  blood,  stared  a  moment,  said,  "Hell!"  — 
told  me  to  sit  up,  and  removed  my  shirt,  care 
fully  examined  me,  ejaculated,  "Well,  I'll  be 
damned!"  in  a  fervent  tone  that  admitted  no 
contradiction;  and  said,  "What  in  the  devil's 
name  did  you  get  a  man  out  of  bed  for  at  this 


190      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

time  of  day  to  perform  an  operation  on  a  per 
fectly  sound  man?" 

"But,  Doc,"  I  stammered,  "ain't  there  a 
wound?" 

"Wound,  nothing!"  he  replied  with  huge  dis 
gust.  "You  have  n't  a  scratch!" 

"But  the  cow  certainly  hooked  me,"  I  in 
sisted,  "and  if  she  did  n't  gore  me,  where  did  the 
blood  come  from?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  doctor  testily, 
"but  I'm  going  to  find  out." 

So  we  all  went  to  the  barn  after  I  had  put 
on  my  coat,  and  there  found  that  the  cow  had 
evidently  caught  her  horn  in  the  tie-ring  and 
had  broken  it  off  close  to  her  head,  with  the 
result  that  it  had  bled  freely  over  her  frontlet, 
and  when  she  rubbed  against  me  she  had  thor 
oughly  smeared  me  with  her  blood  instead  of 
mine. 

"Well,  of  all  the  cussed  fools  I  ever  saw,  you 
are  the  cussedest!"  said  the  doctor  as  he  strode  to 
the  house  to  pack  up  his  instruments.  However, 
he  found  something  to  do  after  all,  for  my  wife, 
who  has  a  horror  of  blood,  as  soon  as  the  danger 
was  over  had  an  attack  of  hysterics  which  took 
the  doctor  some  time  to  quiet.  Indeed,  it  was  an 
hour  before  she  was  quiet  in  bed,  the  doctor  had 
returned  to  his  interrupted  slumber,  and  I,  re 
joicing  in  my  escape,  was  milking  a  cow  with 


Saved  191 

a  bandaged  stump  and  a  large  appetite  for  a 
steaming  bran  mash. 

I  paid  the  doctor  ten  dollars,  for  his  morning 
trip  and  thought  it  cheap.  I  would  willingly  give 
that  sum  any  day  to  avoid  a  horrid  and  unheroic 
death,  or  indeed  any  sort  of  a  demise,  heroic  or 
otherwise. 

There  are  people,  I  feel  sure,  who  would  not 
part  with  anything  like  that  sum  to  keep  me 
alive,  but  I  am  not  one  of  them. 

But,  had  I  thus  untimely  perished,  how  my 
friend  the  editor  of  our  local  weekly  would  have 
whooped  up  the  obituary  column!  I  dare  not 
imagine  how  many  hitherto  unsuspected  virtues 
would  have  been  attributed  to  me,  how  many 
undesirable  qualities  suppressed.  Ah,  well,  "De 
mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum." 

But  one  thing  puzzles  me.  I  know  that  my  son 
and  wife  were  genuinely  alarmed  about  me,  and 
are  genuinely  thankful  that  I  was  not  injured. 
But  in  spite  of  this  they  are  peeved  with  me  and 
appear  to  think  that  I  played  a  joke  on  them. 
They  do  not  discuss  the  subject.  At  least,  I  have 
one  friend  in  court,  for  my  daughter  was  luckily 
away  at  the  time  and  does  not  view  the  matter 
in  the  same  light. 

Sunday,  July  28,  191-.  I  have  misjudged  farmers 
as  a  class.  The  farther  I  delve  into  the  cultiva- 


192      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

tion  of  the  soil,  and  the  raising  of  stock,  the  more 
I  have  come  to  realize  that  the  life  of  a  farmer 
is  a  long  and  hand-to-hand  fight  with  sun  and 
wind,  rain  and  frosts,  poison  ivy,  Paris  green, 
hog  cholera,  grapple  bugs,  and  all  manner  of  creep 
ing,  crawling,  and  flying  things. 

Does  the  price  of  pork  on  the  hoof  arise  to 
hitherto  unknown  altitudes,  straightway  his 
brood  sow  has  from  nine  to  thirteen  pigs  and 
promptly  eats  them  all  as  a  sort  of  cocktail  ap 
petizer;  or  cholera  or  some  other  infernal  pesti 
lence  cuts  them  down. 

Does  he  succeed  in  raising  an  especially  likely 
colt,  which  he  has  just  sold  for  an  unheard-of 
price  to  a  man  perfectly  willing  and  able  to  pay, 
he  finds  that  the  animal  has  got  into  a  barbed- 
wire  fence  and  has  permanently  lamed  himself 
and  the  deal  is  off. 

Does  he  have  the  banner  cow  of  the  commu 
nity,  which  he  is  grooming  for  the  County  Fair, 
where  she  will  undoubtedly  break  all  the  milk 
and  butter-fat  records  to  date,  she  gets  into  a 
neighbor's  orchard,  eats  about  two  bushels  of 
half -ripe  apples,  and  goes  so  dry  that  he  does  n't 
dare  use  a  lantern  in  the  barn. 

I  am  beginning  to  realize  that  the  life  of  the 
farmer  is  not  one  merry  and  care-free  accumula 
tion  of  money,  automobiles,  blooded  stock,  blue 
ribbons,  and  other  insignia  of  wealth  and  happi- 


Pygmalion  r  193 

ness,  but  is  much  like  the  working  lives  of  other 
classes,  full  of  no-thoroughfares  and  pitfalls,  to 
avoid  which  and  to  climb  out  of  which,  when  not 
successfully  avoided,  requires  great  skill  and 
great  expenditure  of  time  and  money. 

Only  a  short  time  ago  skilled  veterinarians  and 
hideous  combinations  of  nauseous  materia  medico, 
were  battling  for  the  life  of  my  beloved  Jersey. 
To-night,  in  secret,  and  behind  the  "something" 
Von  Hutei  bushes,  I  laid  away  Pygmalion  stiff 
and  cold. 

I  did  not  consult  a  veterinarian.  I  did  not  think 
his  malady  was  serious  enough  to  warrant  any 
thing  but  a  course  of  light  feeding.  I  only  found 
out  my  mistake  when  this  morning  I  found  him 
dead.  Why,  I  cannot  say,  but  in  a  moment  a  line 
of  Horace  flashed  into  my  mind  from  my  Acad 
emy  days  — 

"  Psittacus  Eois  imitatrix  ab  Indis  occidit 
Exequias  ite  frequenter  aves." 

Then  I  decided  to  have  the  funeral  extremely  and 
exclusively  private.  I  did  not  wish  my  wife,  my 
son,  or  my  daughter  to  know  just  how  many 
kinds  of  an  infernal  idiot  I  was.  For  the  death  of 
the  pig  was  entirely  my  fault,  and  in  no  way 
caused  by  any  ill  to  which  pigs  are  heir.  I  had 
deliberately,  but  with  no  guile  in  my  heart,  given 
Pygmalion  a  feed  of  corn  after  he  had  eaten  his 


194      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

usual  and  generous  allowance  of  milk  and  stock 
feed. 

I  liked  to  see  his  sides  bulge  out  and  his  skin 
tighten.  I  wanted  to  make  Pyg.  and  Gal.  beat  out 
all  porcine  wonders  of  the  year.  Any  fool  would 
have  known  better  than  to  do  what  I  did.  I  mean, 
of  course,  any  other  fool.  But  I  did  not,  and 
"Hinc  illce  lacrimce."  It  is  a  wonder  that  both 
had  not  died,  but  Galatea  is  apparently  as  good 
as  new.  Either  she  was  more  elastic  or  less  in 
dulgent.  At  all  events,  Pygmalion  died,  and 
Galatea  lives  and  flourishes.  How  to  lay  Pyg.  to 
rest  without  alarming  the  neighborhood?  That 
was  the  question. 

I  cautiously  climbed  into  the  pen  and  hoisted 
him  out,  carried  him  to  the  harness  room  and 
covered  him  with  bagging;  then  finished  my  work 
in  the  barn,  hoed  a  few  rows  of  potatoes,  and 
mowed  one  lawn  before  breakfast,  and  then  went 
whistling  into  the  house  as  one  without  a  care 
in  the  world,  but  realizing  that  I  had  lost  prop 
erty  to  the  value  of  at  least  twenty  dollars  and 
was  up  against  a  problem  of  concealment  that 
called  for  the  very  highest  ingenuity. 

At  noon  I  fed  Galatea  and  was  sorry  to  see  that 
she  apparently  did  not  miss  her  chum  a  bit.  Pigs 
are,  I  am  afraid,  not  sensible  of  the  finer  emotions. 
I  opened  the  harness-room  door,  half  hoping  I 
would  be  greeted  by  the  comfortable  grunt  and 


Digging  In  195 

the  good-natured  sparkle  in  the  twinkling  eyes  of 
Pyg.,  but  the  outline  of  his  poor  stiff  form  under 
the  bags  was  unchanged. 

When  I  returned  for  supper  my  wife  asked 
where  my  other  pig  was.  She  said  she  had  been 
to  the  barn  and  saw  only  one.  I  pretended  some 
surprise  and  went  out  to  see  for  myself.  Had  she 
accompanied  me  I  should  have  explained  Pyg.'s 
absence  on  the  theory  that  he  had  jumped  the 
fence  and  escaped.  But  as  she  did  n't,  I  came 
back  with  the  statement  that  Pyg.  had  got  into 
the  barn  and  was  probably  hiding  when  she  was 
out  there. 

So  I  figured  on  burying  poor  Pyg.  secretly  and 
buying  another  shoat  of  the  same  size  and  color, 
and  I  felt  sure  that  neither  she  nor  any  other 
member  of  my  family  would  ever  know  of  the 
substitution  of  an  alien  pig.  So  after  supper  I 
donned  my  barn  clothes  and  set  about  my  duties 
while  my  wife  and  daughter  washed  the  dishes 
and  then  sat  on  the  piazza  with  some  friends  who 
had  run  in  for  a  short  visit. 

After  I  had  milked  and  strained  the  milk  and 
fed  and  bedded  my  cow  and  attended  to  the 
simple  wants  of  my  sheep,  I  put  the  pig  into  a 
wheelbarrow,  covered  him  with  bags  and  wheeled 
him  down  behind  the  Von  Hutei  bushes  and  tak 
ing  a  sharp  spade  began  to  dig  a  grave.  The  ground 
was  soft  and  I  made  rapid  progress,  as  I  was  in  ex- 


196      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

cellent  condition,  owing  to  my  intensive  training 
of  the  spring  and  summer,  and  before  I  knew 
it  I  had  dug  through  about  eighteen  inches  of 
rich  loam  to  a  stratum  of  clean  sand,  evidently 
Myocene  formation.  I  was  keenly  interested  and 
dug  and  threw  out  sand  until  I  struck  a  stratum 
which  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  marine  bed  of  the 
older  Tertiary,  which  should,  in  conformity  to 
the  rule,  cover  a  Cretaceous  deposit. 

By  this  time  I  had  dug  so  deep  that  my  shoul 
ders  were  about  on  a  level  with  the  surface,  but 
far  below  the  top  of  the  mound  of  earth  on  each 
side  of  the  excavation.  And  so  interested  had  I 
become  in  the  different  strata  and  the  geological 
formation,  that  I  had  entirely  forgotten  the  object 
of  my  labors. 

So  I  continued  to  dig  and  throw  out  the  de 
posit,  and  sure  enough  soon  came  to  the  Creta 
ceous  deposit  which  seemed  to  be  mixed  or 
blended  with  an  argillaceous  stratum  of  the  Up 
per,  Middle,  or  Lower  Jurassic  series.  I  felt  sure 
it  was  of  the  Jurassic,  as  I  could  plainly  see  the 
concentric  layers  of  short  miniature  concretions, 
produced  by  the  aggregation  of  calcareous  mat 
ters  around  centres,  by  a  process  of  molecular 
attraction  to  which  fine  sediments  are  exceedingly 
liable. 

Really  it  was  exceedingly  interesting,  and  I  was 
completely  absorbed  in  my  discoveries  until  sud- 


Digging  Out  197 

denly  I  struck  a  vein  of  water.  It  was  a  generous 
vein,  too,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  I  found  it  over 
my  ankles  and  gaining.  There  was  nothing  to  do 
but  to  give  up  further  geological  excavation  and 
climb  out  of  the  trench.  This  I  started  to  do,  and 
throwing  my  spade  out  started  to  follow,  and 
then  for  the  first  time  I  realized  that  I  was  at  the 
bottom  of  a  trench  so  deep  that  I  could  not  reach 
the  top  with  my  outstretched  hands. 

However,  to  climb  out  must  be  easy.  Just  dig 
foot-holds  in  the  side  of  the  trench  and  step  out. 
I  dug  the  holes  and  then  to  my  disgust  I  found 
I  had  built  my  house  on  the  sands,  and  every 
time  I  put  my  foot  into  the  holes  and  threw  my 
weight  on  them,  the  sand  crumbled.  I  tried  again 
and  again,  and  made  no  headway.  Well,  I  could 
dig  a  slanting  trench  and  crawl  out.  Then  I 
realized  my  stupidity  in  throwing  away  my 
spade.  The  situation  was  awkward.  I  was  not 
worried,  for  I  knew  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  yell  for 
help,  and  it  would  be  forthcoming  accompanied 
by  side-splitting  ridicule.  And  I  did  not  want  to 
call  for  help  if  I  could  in  any  way  avoid  it.  So  I 
redoubled  my  exertions.  Leaning  my  back  against 
one  side  of  the  trench  I  braced  my  feet  against 
the  opposite  side  and  tried  to  push  myself  up 
and  out  of  the  trench  the  way  I  had  seen  well- 
cleaners  climb  out  of  a  well,  but  the  sand  crumbled 
and  I  could  make  no  progress,  and  for  a  moment 


198      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

the  recollection  came  to  me  of  Kipling's  ghastly 
story  about  the  sand  pit  in  which  lepers  were 
kept  and  the  sides  of  which  crumbled  whenever 
the  poor  wretches  tried  to  get  out.  For  a  moment 
I  felt  very  much  inclined  to  call  for  help. 

Then  I  tried  to  claw  away  the  sides  of  the 
trench  and  to  fill  it  in  sufficiently  to  bring  my 
head  above  the  level  of  the  ground  so  that  I  could 
grasshopper  out,  on  the  principle  of  an  athlete 
on  the  parallel  bars.  I  used  to  do  the  grasshopper 
easily  in  my  college  days  and  believed  that,  un 
der  the  desperate  necessity  of  getting  out  with 
out  letting  any  one  know  of  my  plight,  I  could 
do  it  again. 

But  I  found  that  I  only  made  a  sticky,  adhe 
sive  mud  that  gave  me  no  support  and  had  a 
strong  tendency  to  glue  me  to  the  bottom  of  the 
trench.  All  I  could  think  of  for  a  moment,  as  I 
wallowed  in  the  wet,  sticky  mass,  was  the  grue 
some  poem: 

"They  made  her  a  grave  too  cold  and  damp 

For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true, 
And  she 's  gone  to  the  lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 
Where  all  night  long  with  her  firefly  lamp 
She  paddles  her  white  canoe." 

I  really  do  not  know  how  I  should  have  been  able 
to  get  out,  had  not  some  one  called  me  up  on  the 
telephone,  and  of  course  my  wife  came  to  the 
back  door  and  called  me.  In  guarded  tones  I  told 


An  Eldritch  Screech  199 

her  to  come  out,  which  she  did  wonderingly. 
When  I  told  her  to  get  the  stepladder,  and  be 
quick  about  it,  and  not  to  unnecessarily  advertise 
it,  she  brought  the  ladder  and  I  climbed  out. 

Then,  woman-like,  she  wanted  to  know  what 
I  was  digging  that  hole  for,  and  why  I  was  down 
there.  I  was  trying  to  improvise  a  lie  about  water 
pipes  to  the  barn,  when  she  caught  sight  of  the 
wheelbarrow  with  its  bagging-covered  form,  and 
still  laboring  under  the  fatal  curiosity  for  which 
woman  is  famous,  lifted  up  the  cloth,  let  out  a 
loud  shriek,  and  fled  to  the  house.  Later  I  told 
her  the  circumstances  and  explained  my  secrecy 
on  the  plea,  a  very  plausible  if  specious  one,  that 
I  did  not  want  her  to  know  about  it  until  long 
afterwards.  This  was,  as  a  fact,  true,  but  the 
reasons  were,  I  am  sure,  not  what  she  thought. 

At  all  events,  I  buried  poor  Pyg.,  first  having 
filled  in  the  trench  until  his  resting-place  was  dry 
and  soft,  and  covered  him  with  clean  bagging. 
And  there  he  lies  to-day,  a  victim  of  his  appetite 
and  the  plumb  idiocy  of  his  owner. 

Verily  at  this  rate  my  farming  venture  will  not 
be  wholly  successful  from  a  financial  standpoint. 
However,  there  are  ups  and  downs  in  all  business. 
It  is  not  so  much  the  financial  loss  that  I  regret 
as  the  loss  of  a  friend  with  whom  (which,  perhaps, 
would  be  better)  I  was  gradually  getting  on  terms 
of  intimacy.  And  I  hate  to  realize,  as  I  not  infre- 


200      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

quently  have  to  do,  what  an  unmitigated  and 
extraordinary  ass  I  am. 

I  have  ordered  a  new  pig,  of  the  size,  sex,  and 
color  of  my  martyred  Pygmalion. 

Monday,  July  29,  191-.  I  am  confronted  by  an 
unexpected  and  wholly  unreasonable  state  of 
affairs.  I  find  that  a  vacation  is  absolutely  neces 
sary  to  my  physical,  mental,  and  moral  welfare. 
My  wife  said  so.  I  rose  to  a  point  of  order,  got 
the  floor,  and  denied  it  with  hoarse  invective. 
I  asserted  that  I  eat  three  square  meals  a  day. 
She  admitted  it,  but  said  I  eat  too  heartily  and 
altogether  too  fast  and  that  my  flesh  is  not 
healthy.  I  came  back  with  the  statement  that 
possibly,  when  judged  from  the  standpoint  of 
roast,  boiled,  fried,  fricasseed,  braized,  potted,  or 
corned,  it  might  not  be  exactly  tempting  or  es 
pecially  appetizing,  but  I  was  sure  it  would  have 
a  very  sustaining  quality. 

She  claimed  that  I  am  quick-tempered  and  ner 
vous  and  never  want  to  sit  still.  That  I  am  tem 
peramentally  twisted.  I  retorted  that  I  have  so 
much  to  do  and  so  little  time  to  do  it  that  I  can't 
sit  still  even  if  I  wished  to,  but  that  I  sleep  nights 
as  soundly  as  a  hibernating  woodchuck. 

She  said  a  vacation  is  a  good  thing  for  one.  I 
said  it  surely  is  provided  a  person  both  needs  it 
and  wants  it,  but  when  a  person  neither  needs  it, 


An  Argument  201 

wants  it,  nor  deserves  it,  to  take  it  is  like  giving 
up  a  good  job  to  hold  up  a  post  or  to  hold  down 
a  curbing  on  the  sidewalk. 

We  argued  all  the  evening  when  I  wanted  to 
spray  the  roosts  on  my  henhouse  with  kerosene. 

There  are  too  many  loafers  in  the  world,  any 
way.  I  wish  some  way  could  be  devised  to  pry 
loafers  away  from  posts.  The  idea  of  a  vacation 
when  there  is  so  much  work  to  do! 

Tuesday,  July  30,  191-.  But  for  the  hose  my  farm 
would  be  pretty  dry.  As  it  is  I  cannot  water  the 
lawn,  and  my  daily  promenade  in  the  rear  of  my 
lawn-mower  has  been  called  off.  I  am  getting  to 
be  a  master  hand  at  the  scythe.  It  is  seldom  that 
I  break  a  blade  now,  not  more  than  once  or  twice 
a  week.  The  cow  gets  all  the  grass  and  greens  she 
can  eat.  The  hardware  man  speaks  highly  of  me. 

Wednesday,  July  31,  191-.  Had  a  light  skirmish 
with  my  wife  about  the  vacation.  Some  women 
have  developed  persistency  to  an  obsession. 
The  absence  of  my  clerk  has  given  me  much  less 
time  to  do  my  farm  work.  When  she  comes  back 
next  Monday,  there  will  be  enough  to  do  to  put 
the  idea  of  a  vacation  entirely  out  of  the  question. 

Thursday,  August  1,  191-.  To-day  my  daugh 
ter  Nathalie  broached  the  vacation  question. 


202      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Said  I  looked  drawn  and  tired.  I  feel  sure  she  was 
sicked  onto  me. 

Friday,  August  2,  191-.  Still  dry.  The  Water 
Company  has  restricted  us  to  two  hours  per 
day  for  the  use  of  the  hose.  Hang  a  soulless 
corporation ! 

Saturday,  August  3,  191-.  At  breakfast  this 
morning  my  wife  spoke  very  disparagingly  of  my 
physical  condition.  She  said  I  looked  very  much 
like  her  brother  just  before  he  was  taken  down 
with  typhoid  fever.  I  told  her  that  I  had  been 
called  almost  everything  in  my  day;  that  my 
name  had  been  chalked  up  on  fences  coupled 
with  every  epithet  that  ingenuity  could  invent 
and  malice  prompt;  that  I  had  been  caricatured 
in  the  public  prints,  and  had  been  called  unbe 
liever,  cut-throat  dog,  and  that  my  Jewish  gab 
erdine  had  been  spit  upon,  but  that  it  has  been 
reserved  for  the  wife  of  my  bosom  to  heap  the 
most  venomous  and  unjust  calumny  of  all  upon 
me;  that  it  was  bad  enough  to  look  like  her 
brother  when  he  was  in  the  bloom  of  health ;  that 
I  was  hurt,  but  I  had  learned  by  years  of  repres 
sion  to  submit  to  almost  anything;  but  that  this 
was  too  much,  too  much. 

Beyond  saying  that  I  would  perhaps  realize  my 
condition  when  it  was  too  late,  she  did  not  pur- 


Light  Persiflage  203 

sue  the  subject  farther,  but  poured  herself  a  second 
cup  of  coffee. 

Then  Dick  took  up  the  thread  of  argument  by 
telling  me  that  I  looked  like  hell;  and  that  my 
ultimate  destination  would  be  the  boneyard  if 
I  did  n't  switch  off. 

I  replied  that  a  fellow  who  was  five  feet  eight 
inches  tall  and  only  weighed  one  hundred  and 
eleven  pounds  had  better  not  talk  of  the  bone- 
yard,  and  the  young  man  applied  himself  to  his 
bacon  and  eggs  as  if  it  were  his  sole  interest  in 
life. 

Then  Nathalie,  who  had  just  returned  from 
a  month's  vacation  at  a  New  Hampshire  lake, 
suggested  that  quite  often  a  man  of  my  age, 
working  beyond  his  strength,  was  liable  to  a  se 
vere  if  not  fatal  shock,  to  which  suggestion  I 
replied  rather  pointedly  that  a  man  who  had  re 
ceived  in  one  day  a  bill  for  a  load  of  grain  and  a 
bill  for  his  angel  daughter's  summer  suit  and  hat, 
as  I  had  done  the  day  before  and  lived,  was  shock 
proof. 

She  made  no  reply  to  this  beyond  an  inarticu 
late  gurgle  as  she  hastily  quaffed  a  bumper  of 
milk. 

It  is  by  interposing  this  defence  of  raillery 
and  light  persiflage  that  I  keep  them  in  their 
trenches.  However,  I  have  a  feeling  in  my  bones 
that  some  day  they  will  land  me.  How  or  when 


204      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

I  cannot  say.  But  the  odds  are  strongly  against 
me.  I  wonder  what  their  next  move  will  be. 

I  am  afraid  I  rather  exceeded  the  hose  limit 
to-day.  I  saw  the  superintendent  of  the  Water 
Company  drive  by  in  his  touring-car  this  morn 
ing  with  his  family,  and  as  there  is  no  meter 
indulged  myself  a  bit.  Probably  not  over  four  or 
five  hours  extra.  I  wish  it  would  rain. 

Sunday,  August  4, 191-.  My  clerk  comes  back  to 
morrow.  It  is  my  intention  to  shove  all  the  office 
work  possible  on  her  and  put  in  some  great  work 
on  the  farm  myself.  She  has,  I  am  very  glad  to 
note,  come  back  in  a  rude  state  of  health,  and 
capable,  I  feel  sure,  of  bearing  any  burdens  not 
too  unreasonable. 

Now,  if  my  family  will  kindly  call  off  their 
interest  in  that  infernal  vacation  of  mine,  I  may 
be  able  to  do  something. 

Monday,  August  5,  191-.  It  has  been  threaten 
ing  rain  for  a  day  or  two,  but  I  still  keep  the  hose 
going  to  the  limit  and  sometimes  a  bit  beyond. 
My  watch  is  not  very  accurate,  I  am  afraid.  My 
wife  commenced  again  to-day  on  a  new  tack.  She 
says  she  does  n't  see  why  we  are  the  only  people 
in  the  community  that  do  not  own  an  automo 
bile.  I  explained  that  generally,  except  in  the  case 
of  the  criminally  rich,  an  automobile  went  hand 


"Humph!"  205 

in  hand  with  a  real  estate  mortgage,  and  that 
having  gone  to  the  mat  for  years  in  a  rough  and 
tumble  with  the  homestead  mortgage  which  I 
had  finally  killed  in  a  struggle  that  had  left  me  a 
care-worn,  serious,  wrinkled  old  man  before  my 
time,  I  never  wanted  to  deliberately  invite  an 
other  of  the  breed  to  be  in  my  midst,  go  to  bed 
with  me,  rise  when  I  rose,  and  sit  at  my  table 
like  a  death's  head. 

To  all  of  which  she  said  "Humph!"  and  re 
tired.  "Humph"  may  mean  almost  anything. 
Still  the  way  she  pronounced  it  indicated  only 
too  plainly  that  she  was  not  impressed  by  my  dis 
course. 

My  pigs  are  really  getting  to  be  hogs  now.  My 
grain  bills  are  very  disquieting. 

Tuesday,  August  6,  191-.  I  proposed  a  home  va 
cation  to-day,  in  which  I  am  to  give  my  entire 
attention  to  my  farm  and  garden.  It  did  not  make 
a  hit.  Indeed,  both  my  daughter  and  my  wife 
predicted  that  I  would  be  sorry  when  I  was  dead. 
Never  having  been  dead,  of  course,  I  cannot  say. 
It  will  be  tough  enough  to  be  dead  without  being 
sorry  for  it. 

Wednesday,  August  7,  191-.  Sharp  thunderstorm 
to-day  followed  by  a  heavy,  pouring  rain  for  sev 
eral  hours.  Everything  was  thoroughly  soaked, 


206      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

and  fairly  steams  to-night.  My  wife  is  always 
very  sensitive  to  atmospheric  disturbances  and 
has  gone  to  bed  with  a  nervous  chill. 

Thursday,  August  8,  191-.  I  never  saw  so  rapid 
a  change  in  the  crops  overnight.  The  lawns  are 
a  vivid  emerald,  the  corn  which  had  begun  to 
shrivel  up  like  a  cheap  cigar,  is  lush  and  green. 
It  will  be  but  a  day  or  two  before  I  shall  be  push 
ing  my  lawn-mower  again.  I  am  not  especially 
keen  about  that  lawn-mower.  My  wife  is  up 
to-day,  but  feeling  far  from  well.  Thinks  a  Ford 
Sedan  would  be  about  the  thing.  Now  I  can  buy 
one,  but  I  positively  cannot  afford  the  time  for 
it.  I  know  what  it  will  mean.  No  more  farming, 
no  time  to  write. 

Friday,  August  9,  191-.  Had  a  bright  idea  last 
night.  Why  not  send  my  wife  and  daughter  away 
to  the  mountains  and  seashore  until  the  fall  term 
of  school.  Then  I  can  stay  at  home  and  keep  the 
farm  from  reverting  to  the  wild  and  untamed 
wilderness,  the  buildings  from  falling  to  pieces, 
and  my  thoroughbred  stock  from  deteriorating 
to  mere  beasts  of  the  field. 

Proposed  it  at  breakfast.  It  was  promptly  ve 
toed  unless  I  promised  to  go  with  them.  Women, 
irrespective  of  age,  are  most  accursedly  obstinate 
and  stiff-necked. 


Obstinacy  207 

Saturday,  August  10,  191-.  I  broke  off  an  ear  of 
corn  to-day  and  tried  it.  It  was  unformed  as  yet, 
but  in  a  week  or  ten  days  some  of  it  will  be  ready. 
Things  are  jumping  ahead  as  in  the  first  week  of 
June.  It  seems  sad  to  be  personally  galloping 
toward  the  grim  and  silent  tomb,  as  my  wife  says 
I  am,  while  all  nature,  as  well  as  hens,  cow,  pigs, 
and  sheep,  is  flourishing.  It  is  strange  that  I,  who 
am  so  seriously  distempered,  still  work  like  a 
horse,  eat  like  a  hired  man,  and  sleep  like  a  busi 
ness  man  under  a  prosy  preacher. 

Sunday,  August  11,  191-.  Unless  I  am  mistaken 
my  wife  said  something  about  a  Winton  Six  to 
day.  It  looks  as  if  I  may  have  to  do  something 
about  that  cussed  vacation.  I  wonder  why  they 
won't  let  me  alone? 

Monday,  August  12,  191-.  Tried  another  tack 
to-day.  Proposed  that  they  write  some  near  and 
dear  friend  to  go  on  a  vacation  with  them  and  let 
me  stay  home.  The  proposal  was  vetoed  nemine 
dissentiente.  I  wonder  if  obstinacy  in  women  is 
acquired  or  inherited  or  both?  It  is  a  deplorable 
trait  and  they  have  the  presumption  to  claim 
that  I  am  the  one  who  is  obstinate,  and  actually 
they  talk  as  if  they  really  thought  so.  It  seems 
so  absolutely  ridiculous  that  I,  who  only  wish  to 
be  let  alone,  and  to  be  allowed  to  cultivate  in 


208      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

peace  my  little  patch  of  land  and  to  eat  my  own 
vegetables  and  leave  the  madding  crowd  to  mad 
and  be  hanged  to  them,  should  be  accused  of 
obstinacy  because  I  do  not  want  to  waste  time 
at  a  mountain  or  seashore  resort. 

Tuesday,  August  13,  191-.  It  rained  to-day  hard. 
I  was  unable  to  do  any  work  in  the  garden,  but 
cleaned  and  swept  the  barn  pretty  thoroughly 
and,  with  a  raincoat  and  a  pair  of  rubber  boots 
as  a  protection,  cut  enough  grass  for  the  cow. 
It  is  rather  good  fun  running  a  mower  in  the 
rain.  The  grass  cuts  easily  and  the  wet  makes 
the  machine  run  noiselessly.  Then  when  the  grass 
is  taken  from  the  hood,  it  is  sweet  and  fresh  and 
clean  and  I  think  the  cow  relishes  it  all  the  more. 

We  needed  rain  very  much,  and  the  farmers 
have  been  quite  a  bit  pessimistic  over  the  crop 
outlook.  Of  course  I  have  kept  my  hose  working 
during  the  time  allowed,  which  has  done  much 
toward  keeping  my  plants  fresh,  but  a  day  of  rain 
will  freshen  things  up  more  than  a  fortnight  of 
hose  watering.  Of  course  I  shall  have  to  spray  my 
potatoes  again,  but  that  is  no  great  task.  One  has 
to  be  careful  not  to  leave  any  of  the  poison  where 
neither  your  ox,  nor  your  ass,  nor  your  cattle,  nor 
the  stranger  within  your  gates  may  get  at  it  and 
drink  a  bumper  of  it  to  your  health. 

I  do  not  know  the  reason,  but  any  domestic 


Thoroughbreds  209 

animal  of  any  considerable  value  will  manage, 
by  hook  or  by  crook,  to  take  advantage  of  any 
remissness  on  your  part,  and  will  promptly  fill 
itself  to  the  brim  with  various  poisonous  com 
pounds,  however  nauseous,  and  will  inevitably 
die  of  hideous  and  astounding  abdominal  dis 
tension,  which  will  render  prompt  inhumation 
not  only  advisable,  but  absolutely  necessary. 

I  have  found  that  there  is  but  little  if  any 
element  of  chance  in  it.  One  can  predict  in  ad 
vance  just  what  a  certain  animal  will  do.  That  is 
to  say,  if  you  have  two  cows,  one  an  extremely 
valuable  thoroughbred  of  any  standard  family, 
due  to  freshen  the  next  week,  and  the  other 
an  old  grade,  giving  at  best  scarcely  enough 
milk  to  pay  for  one's  time,  to  say  nothing  of  her 
keep,  and  you  carelessly  leave  a  pail  of  Paris 
green  mixture  on  the  border  of  a  fresh  patch  of 
green  cabbages  and  with  equal  carelessness  allow 
your  two  cows  the  freedom  of  the  yard,  the 
thoroughbred  will  drink  the  poison  and  die 
promptly,  while  the  old  grade  cow  will  eat  the 
cabbages  and  live.  This  result,  while  curious  and 
inexplicable,  never  fails.  It  is,  I  suppose,  analo 
gous  to  the  fact,  which  every  railroad  claim  agent 
will  vouch  for,  that  none  but  thoroughbreds  are 
ever  killed  by  locomotives. 

Of  course  under  these  circumstances  a  wise 
man  never  leaves  poison  exposed. 


210       The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

It  was  still  raining  to-night  when  I  went  to  bed. 
The  robins  sang  until  nearly  dark.  They  know 
how  rain,  driving  on  the  grass  and  ground,  will 
bring  worms  to  the  surface  by  thousands.  Little 
Tommy  Tucker  singing  for  his  supper  has  noth 
ing  on  Sir  Redbreast  in  a  summer  rain. 

Wednesday,  August  14,  191-.  I  am  wondering 
what  Dr.  Osier  would  say  if  he  had  to  follow  me 
for  a  day.  It  is  scarcely  probable  that  he  would 
at  once  recede  from  the  position  he  has  taken, 
but  he  would,  I  think,  be  less  annoy ingly  cock 
sure.  I  feel  that  I  have  demonstrated  beyond  a 
peradventure  that  a  man  of  sixty  or  more  may, 
by  a  judicious  alternation  of  physical  and  mental 
work,  do  as  much  and  as  good  work  as  he  could 
were  he  but  thirty.  The  saying,  "Old  men  for 
counsel,  young  men  for  war,"  sounds  good,  and 
is  true  as  far  as  the  counsel  goes.  But  it  should 
have  stopped  there.  If  by  "war"  is  meant  hard 
physical  work  the  statement  is  misleading  in  the 
extreme. 

I  claim  to  have  proved  by  my  own  experience 
that  I  am  as  good  physically  as  when  I  was  a 
youngster.  Of  course  I  do  not  do  the  things  I  did 
then  —  wrestle,  box,  ride,  swim,  play  football, 
row.  And  the  reason  is  that  I  no  longer  feel  the 
same  interest  in  those  sports.  I  would  rather 
milk,  split  wood,  and  farm  for  my  exercise.  I 


A  Doddering  Old  Dodunk  211 

claim  that  I  would  have  been  more  tired  at  hav 
ing  to  do  as  a  youngster  what  I  now  do  at  any 
age  when,  as  Osier  says,  I  would  better  be  dead 
than  alive. 

I  have  worked  with  my  hands  and  arms  and 
legs  and  back  at  least  three  hours  every  day 
since  March,  without  in  the  least  interfering  with 
my  office  or  court  work  or  with  my  writing.  In 
deed,  I  am  sure  I  have  done  better  work  in  the 
office  from  the  mental  cobweb  clearing  of  my 
outdoor  work.  And  with  the  exception  of  one 
week  of  sciatica  I  have  been  at  the  top  of  my 
stride  every  minute.  And  yet  Osier  has  the  un 
mitigated  nerve  to  say  —  well,  what's  the  use? 
He  is  not  worth  considering.  But  I  would  like 
to  have  him  follow  me  one  day  —  that 's  all. 

Thursday,  August  15,  191-.  I  wish  here  and  now 
to  go  on  record  as  taking  back,  all  and  singular, 
without  reservation,  what  I  have  said  about 
Dr.  Osier,  and  especially  what  I  said  yesterday. 
When  a  doddering  old  dodunk  of  sixty  tries  to  do 
the  work  of  a  young  man,  and  tries  to  convince 
himself  that  he  is  as  good  as  he  was  when  thirty 
years  younger,  he  needs  a  lesson  in  humility  and 
he  generally  gets  it  as  I  am  getting  it.  If  Osier 
were  here  I  would  personally  apologize  to  him 
and  do  him  honor.  This  morning  I  rose  early 
feeling  like  a  youth  of  twenty.  I  was  wakened 


The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

by  the  song  of  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak  which 
was  enough  to  make  a  man  feel  young.  Then 
I  heard  the  watchman's  rattle  of  a  kingfisher 
making  a  short  overland  cut  between  Salt  River 
below  the  lower  dam  and  Fresh  River  by  the 
park. 

My  cow  gave  more  milk  than  usual,  three  hens 
had  already  laid,  and  really  everything  seemed 
coming  my  way.  So  after  building  the  kitchen 
fire,  milking  my  cow  and  feeding  the  rest  of  my 
pensioners  I  got  down  on  my  knees  astride  a  row 
of  late  hatched  beets  to  hand- weed  them.  I  had 
been  at  work  on  hands  and  knees  for  a  short  time 
when  a  bowstring  in  my  back  twanged  sharply. 
I  instantly  responded  with  a  loud  yell  and  fell 
prostrate  on  my  face.  Indeed,  my  yell  was  so 
prompt  and  so  loud  that  it  completely  drowned 
out  the  twang  of  the  bowstring.  I  am  very  sorry 
for  that  because  if  I  could  have  found  out  the 
exact  tone  of  the  string  I  could  at  once  have  de 
termined  whether  I  was  sharp  or  flat,  tuned  to 
high,  low,  or  medium  pitch.  And  having  got  the 
note  and  pitch,  science  could  have  readily  com 
puted  my  vibrations.  It  would  be  extremely  grat 
ifying  as  well  as  instructive  to  know  just  what 
one's  vibrations  are:  how  many  in  a  given  period. 
And  then  I  should  have  been  able  to  determine 
whether  or  not  I  had  any  overtones.  While  it  may 
not  be  of  superlative  importance  to  know  whether 


Sharp  or  Flat?  213 

one  has  overtones  or  not,  it  would  be  interesting 
to  know. 

Of  course,  if  there  were  overtones  I  probably 
stopped  them  by  my  prompt  response  of  my 
hands  to  my  injured  back,  in  the  same  way  that 
an  Ethiopian  gentleman  stops  the  vibrations  of 
his  banjo  strings  by  spreading  his  hands  over 
them. 

After  I  fell  on  my  face  I  was  quite  content  to 
lie  there  a  moment  while  I  regained  part  of  the 
breath  that  I  had  wasted  in  that  soul-racking 
yell.  After  regaining  my  breath  I  tried  to  get  up 
and  found  that  I  could  n't  without  apparently 
breaking  in  two.  So  I  lay  there  awhile  thinking 
over  what  the  next  move  should  be.  It  was  per 
fectly  evident  that  I  could  n't  lie  there  all  the 
rest  of  the  day,  let  alone  the  rest  of  the  summer. 

After  a  while  I  concluded  that  my  abdominal 
muscles  were  intact  even  if  my  back  was  broken, 
and  with  much  malediction  I  slowly  rolled  over 
on  my  back,  and  from  this  position,  using  my 
elbows  vigorously  and  my  abdominal  muscles 
rather  gingerly,  I  managed  to  get  up. 

"Then  rested  he  by  the  Turn  Turn  tree 
And  [stood]  sat  awhile  in  thought." 

After  I  had  rested  a  bit  I  slowly  and  with 
many  groans  and  grunts  got  onto  my  legs,  but 
in  a  much  warped  and  twisted  condition,  and 


214      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

slowly  crawled  into  the  house  and  sent  for  the 
doctor. 

On  his  arrival  he  told  me  that  I  was  not  para 
lyzed  nor  was  my  back  broken,  but  that  I  had 
dropped  a  stitch  in  my  back.  It  was  a  relief  to 
be  told  in  language  that  I  could  understand. 
Heaven  only  knows  what  language  a  veterina 
rian  would  have  used  to  describe  my  ailment.  I 
am  confident  that  a  veterinarian  would  have 
scared  me  to  death.  How  fortunate  it  is  that  af 
flicted  animals  cannot  understand  what  a  veter 
inarian  says  about  them. 

Then  the  doctor  laid  me  on  my  face  on  the 
bed,  after  removing  my  shirt  produced  an  im 
mense  spool  of  adhesive  plaster  and  began  to 
weave  curious  designs  in  plaster  on  my  prostrate 
figure.  I  don't  know  how  much  he  used,  but  I 
am  sure  if  I  were  unwound  at  this  minute  I 
would  produce  several  hundred  yards  of  flesh- 
colored  ribbon.  Indeed,  when  he  got  through 
I  resembled  a  cocoon  spun  by  the  lowly  grub 
that  later  bursts  into  the  gorgeous  butterfly. 

I  felt  so  rigid  that  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  Mr.  Bagnet,  the  ex-artilleryman  in  Dick- 
ens's  "Bleak  House,"  who  had  "whiskers  like 
the  fibres  of  a  cocoanut,"  and  "an  unbend 
ing,  unyielding,  brass-bound  air,  as  if  he  were 
himself  the  bassoon  of  the  human  orchestra." 

But  to  my  delight  and  surprise  I  found  that  I 


A  Misery  in  My  Back  215 

could  stand  upright,  walk,  and,  apart  from  feel 
ing  as  stiff  above  my  waist  as  a  graven  image,  am 
fairly  capable.  I  have  what  is  known  as  the  mili 
tary  carriage.  But  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  what 
a  time  I  shall  have  later  when  I  unwind  from  my 
shrinking  hide  several  hundred  yards  of  adhesive 
plaster  which  by  that  time  will  have  become  a 
component  part  of  me. 

Would  it  not  have  been  better  to  have  laid  in 
bed  until  that  infernal  bowstring  or  stitch  was 
taken  up,  rather  than  to  have  made  of  myself 
a  rigid  and  unyielding  statue  of  spruce  gum?  I 
have  doubts. 

At  all  events  I  did  my  office  work  to-day, 
and  to-night  did  my  barn  work  without  great 
difficulty,  so  I  am  several  degrees  better  than 
dead. 

Friday,  August  16,  191-.  I  am  not  the  man  I  was 
once.  I  am  not  the  man  I  was  yesterday  before 
I  tried  to  weed  those  infernal  beets.  I  have  a 
"misery  in  my  back."  I  do  not  believe  I  could 
count  the  number  of  elderly  people  in  the  coun 
try  for  whom  I  have  drawn  deeds  or  wills  or 
leases,  or  advised  at  their  houses,  who  have  had 
a  "misery  in  their  backs." 

The  expression  always  amused  me  very  much. 
I  cannot  explain  why.  Perhaps  it  was  the  lugu 
brious  faces  they  drew  when  recounting  this 


216      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

symptom;  perhaps  the  tone  of  their  voices  was 
amusing. 

At  all  events,  I  am  not  a  bit  amused  now.  I 
know  what  a  misery  in  one's  back  is.  No  other 
words  are  as  expressive  to  describe  it.  I  have  a 
misery  in  my  back  and  I  can  pull  as  hideous  a 
face  and  let  out  as  loud  a  yell  as  any  one  of  the 
afflicted,  and  when  it  comes  to  heartfelt  and  sin 
cere  language,  why  — ! 

"How  miserable  is  man  when  the  foot  of  the 
Conqueror  is  on  his  neck." 

The  members  of  my  family  one  and  all  have 
taken  advantage  of  my  semi-helpless  condition, 
have  suborned  the  doctor,  and  have  ridden  me 
with  whip,  spur,  and  spade  bit  all  over  the  prem 
ises  on  the  question  of  vacation.  I  had  to  give 
in.  How  long  can  you  expect  a  man  who  has  a 
misery  in  his  back  to  stand  out  against  such 
odds?  So  I  have  agreed  to  go  with  my  family  on 
a  vacation  to  a  certain  lake  resort. 

Dingbust  all  such  resorts  to  everlasting  ding- 
bustitude ! 

I  milked  to-day,  perhaps  for  the  last  time, 
for  I  am  positive  that  under  the  unskilful  milk 
ing  of  the  man  who  has  charge  of  the  adjoining 
estate  my  cow  will  be  as  dry  as  a  prohibition 
pamphlet  by  the  time  I  get  home.  So  will  the 
garden.  Confound  vacations,  anyway! 


I  Return  217 

Saturday,  September  14,  191-.  Back  to  the  farm. 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  away  a  year.  I  have  swum 
and  paddled  and  fished  and  climbed  mountains, 
and  have  been  smoke-dried  by  campfire  smoke, 
and  have  taken  part  in  handicap  competitive 
athletics  of  every  kind  and  nature,  and  have 
vowed  eternal  friendship  to  the  most  delightful 
people  in  the  world  who  have  in  their  turn  vowed 
the  same,  and  who  will  forget  my  name  before 
Christmas  as  I  will  have  forgotten  their  faces. 

And  I  am  as  tanned  and  healthy  as  my  wife 
and  daughter,  and  we  have  had  a  glorious  time 
and  the  vacation  was  after  all  a  good  thing  for 
every  one. 

But  the  best  of  it  is  the  coming  home  again.  I 
really  do  not  know  which  seems  more  delightful, 
the  battered  old  rolltop  in  the  window  or  the 
home  place.  I  am  glad  that  there  will  be  no  vaca 
tions  before  next  year  at  about  this  time. 

I  am  sure  the  animals  knew  me  and  appre 
ciated  my  return.  My  hogs  have  grown  beyond 
all  calculations,  my  sheep  looks  like  a  new  league 
ball  on  four  legs,  and  my  cow  is  as  smooth  and 
shiny  as  a  new  silk  skirt. 

And  when  I  came  to  look  into  affairs  at  the 
office  I  find  that  as  far  as  efficiency  is  concerned 
the  office  appears  to  have  been  run  better  without 
me  than  with  me.  Really  I  do  not  make  very  much 
of  a  dent  in  the  world's  affairs.  Anyway,  I  am 


218      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

glad  I  am  back.  Now  I  must  get  down  to  work. 
I  have  loafed  long  enough.  No  well  man  has  a 
right  to  loaf  after  he  is  sixty  years  of  age. 

Sunday,  September  15,  191-.  It  seemed  good  to 
milk  again,  to  clean  out  the  stall  and  the  pigpen 
and  to  bed  down;  to  pluck  corn  and  pull  beets 
and  cabbages  and  to  eat  them,  particularly  the 
corn.  As  soon  as  the  corn  is  gathered  I  cut  down 
the  green  stalks  for  the  cow,  the  sheep,  and  the 
pigs.  It  is  a  perpetual  thanksgiving  day  for  them. 
A  good  many  people  are  sick  with  the  prevail 
ing  distemper  and  the  schools  are  not  to  open 
for  a  week  or  two. 

Monday,  September  16,  191-.  Really  things  have 
changed  very  much  for  the  better  since  I  was 
a  boy  —  yes,  since  I  became  a  man.  Every  day 
brings  its  surprises.  As  a  college  man  I  am  sup 
posed  to  be  fairly  well  educated,  and  as  a  member 
of  a  liberal  profession  I  am  supposed  to  have  sup 
plemented  that  education  by  the  hard  mental 
work  necessary  to  enable  one  to  pass  the  bar 
examinations. 

And  yet  no  single  soul  but  myself  knows  full 
well  how  little  I  know.  I  was  a  bit  cocky,  per 
haps,  when,  just  out  of  college,  I  went  into  a  coun 
try  law  office  and  began  to  meet  all  sorts  of 
people  for  my  employer  in  a  business  way.  I  was 


A  Pan-Educational  Course  219 

still  cocky,  but  less  so  when  I  returned  with  my 
certificate  of  admission  to  an  office  of  my  own, 
and  began  to  meet  all  sorts  and  classes  of  people 
desiring  advice. 

I  then  found  out,  not  wholly  to  my  surprise, 
how  little  I  knew,  but  greatly  to  my  surprise, 
how  much  they  knew,  and  particularly  was  I  sur 
prised  at  the  amount  of  knowledge,  legal,  politi 
cal,  historical,  and  common- sensical  the  average 
farmer  had.  It  did  me  good,  and  taught  me  that 
I  could  learn  something  from  every  one  who  came 
to  my  office. 

I  am  still  learning.  Indeed,  just  at  present  I 
am  taking  a  sort  of  pan-educational  course.  It 
is  never  too  late  to  learn.  A  bit  more  difficult, 
perhaps,  as  one  approaches  the  sere  and  yellow, 
but  not  too  late. 

In  my  early  professional  life  correctly  dressed 
gentlemen  of  insinuating  manners  persuaded 
me  to  purchase  bushels  of  reference  books:  En 
cyclopaedias  that  I  could  not  understand;  "Fa 
miliar  Quotations "  that  somebody  borrowed 
and  still  covertly  cherishes;  Books  of  Synonyms 
that  I  loaned  for  a  week  only  to  a  man  whose 
identity  I  have  forgotten  and  who  still  has  it 
after  thirty  years ;  and  other  expensive  and  prac 
tically  useless  tomes  on  an  instalment  plan  that 
proved  a  crushing  financial  burden  for  many  and 
weary  years. 


220      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst,  Farmer 

As  soon  as  they  were  paid  for  I  sold  the  un- 
borrowed  ones  or  exchanged  them  for  articles 
more  to  my  taste  if  not  to  my  needs.  But  while 
they  were  there  they  made  a  brave  show  on  my 
office  shelves  and  were  seldom,  if  ever,  disturbed. 

Some  distinguished  ancient  took  up  the  study 
of  Greek  at  a  very  advanced  age.  This  fact  was 
duly  and  daily  impressed  upon  me  by  the  Greek 
Professor  in  the  Academy,  when  I  was  studying 
that  defunct  and  bemummied  language. 

It  made  a  great  impression  on  me  at  the  time, 
but  not  precisely  what  the  Professor  desired.  I 
was  convinced  that  the  ancient  was  clearly  in 
sane  or  one  of  those  perverted  natures  that  know 
no  shame.  But  here  am  I,  already  an  ancient, 
daily  receiving  instruction  in  spelling,  pronun 
ciation,  grammar,  mathematics  plain  and  orna 
mental,  and  other  branches.  It  is  a  weird  experi 
ence. 

It  came  about  in  this  way:  My  sole  clerk  be 
came  sick,  distempered  and  ill,  and  withdrew, 
temporarily,  I  hope,  for  a  somewhat  uninterest 
ing  vacation  in  bed.  The  prevailing  epidemic  of 
influenza  caused  a  postponement  of  the  opening 
of  the  schools,  and  I  am  fortunate,  doubly  for 
tunate,  in  securing  the  services  of  one  of  the  ma 
rooned  teachers  to  take  the  place  of  my  afflicted 
clerk  until  the  delayed  opening  of  the  schools. 
That  she  is  thoroughly  educated  and  scholarly 


Tact 

up-to-date  I  am  convinced  beyond  peradventure. 
And  although  she  is  the  daughter  of  a  farmer, 
and  used  to  the  good  things  of  life,  yet  am  I 
surprised  at  her  erudition.  And  I  am  equally 
convinced  that  I  am  still  an  "also  ran"  in  the 
mere  rudiments  of  education. 

As  a  country  lawyer  I  have  all  sorts  of  people 
in  my  office.  There  is  a  pronounced  lack  of  dignity 
in  the  transaction  of  business  and  an  apparent 
lack  of  system.  This  is  not  wholly  as  true  as  it 
seems,  for  with  perseverance,  a  pitchfork,  the 
spur  of  necessity,  a  search  warrant,  and  a  coal 
sifter  I  can  usually  find  any  paper  needed  in  the 
course  of  a  few  hours  or  of  a  day  or  two. 

I  have  always  tried  to  adapt  myself  to  my 
clients.  If  an  Englishman  comes  in,  whom  I 
wish  to  retain  as  my  client  or  to  put  in  good 
humor,  I  manage  during  the  interview  to  let  him 
know  that  I  am  a  half  Englishman  by  birth,  and 
he  spills  aspirates  all  over  me. 

If  a  Frenchman,  I  try  him  with 

"  Un  octogenaire  plantait 
Passe  encore  de  batir 
Mais  planter  a  cet  age" 

If  he  does  not  rise  at  this  bait,  I  am  sure  to  land 
him  by  one  of  Drummond's  or  of  William  McLen- 
non's  "The  Old  France  and  the  New." 

If  an  Irishman  I  sedulously  conceal  the  Eng 
lish  half  of  me  and  quote: 


222      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

"Paddy  O'Shane  has  no  shoes  to  his  fa-a-te, 
Sorra  a  shoe,  divil  a  shoe, 
And  his  houghs  they  look  rid 
As  he  thramps  on  the  sthra-ate, 
Och,  wirrahoo!" 

If  a  German  I  either  throw  him  bodily  through 
the  door  or  assassinate  him  and  conceal  his  body 
under  the  papers  on  my  desk.  In  this  unostenta 
tious  way  do  I  endeavor  to  hold  my  clients.  I 
trust  it  may  not  be  deemed  unethical.  We  law 
yers  may  not  advertise  nor  may  we  solicit.  We 
may  at  least  make  desirable  clients  welcome. 

But  to  return  to  the  schoolma'am  clerk,  the 
farmer's  daughter. 

My  early  experience  with  the  country  school- 
ma'am  of  the  middle  and  late  sixties  had  left 
the  ineradicable  impression  of  an  angular  spin 
ster  with  the  power  of  concentrating  the  basilisk 
glare  of  red-hot  augers  through  her  steel-bowed 
spectacles,  who,  when  she  undertook  a  verbal 
dressing  down,  successfully  imitated  a  volcano 
belching  forth  fire,  smoke,  ashes,  and  lava. 

She  invariably  wore  her  hair  in  a  knob  on  the 
top  of  her  head:  a  knob  so  tightly  wound  that 
her  eyeballs  resembled  those  of  an  owl,  the  like 
ness  being  occasionally  made  more  realistic  by 
the  iron  grip  of  her  claws  on  the  collar  of  my 
roundabout,  in  my  hair,  or  on  my  ear. 

She  also  wielded  a  flexible  rattan  that  stung 
like  a  yellow-bellied  hornet,  and  wore  on  the 


Tattoos  and  Rataplans  223 

second  finger  of  her  knuckled  hand  an  iron 
thimble  with  which  she  frequently  beat  tattoos 
and  rataplans,  or  played  brilliant  tympani  fan 
tasias  on  my  shrinking  skull  until  its  emptiness 
rang  like  an  old  tin  kettle. 

And  so  I  experience  a  sort  of  reminiscent  dread, 
when  I  engaged,  after  that  method  known  in  my 
boyhood  as  "unsight  and  unseen,"  a  young  per 
son  and  a  schoolma'am  at  that.  I  was,  of  course, 
aware  that  in  the  half -century  that  had  elapsed 
since  I  was  a  small  schoolboy,  there  had  been  a 
marked  and  very  welcome  change  in  the  species. 
Indeed,  I  had  seen  many  specimens  of  late  years 
that  had  made  me 

"  Wish  that  I  was  young  again, 
I'd  lead  a  different  life"; 

and  when  an  exceedingly  attractive  young  lady 
appeared  and  announced  that  if  I  pleased  she 
was  the  new  clerk,  I  could  not  believe  that  I  was 
standing  in  the  presence  of  an  unalloyed  New 
England  schoolma'am. 

I  indicated  where  she  might  hang  her  coat  and 
hat,  gave  her  a  seat  at  the  clerk's  table  and  some 
papers  to  arrange  alphabetically,  and  retired  in 
good  order,  convinced  that  she  was  not  a  school 
ma'am  after  all. 

Tuesday,  September  17,  191-.  Was  rather  in  a 
hurry  this  morning.  I  wanted  to  see  if  my  school- 


224      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

ma'am  clerk,  who  is  not  a  schoolma'am,  I  feel 
sure,  was  on  time.  One  thing  I  am  particular 
about.  I  want  my  clerk  to  be  on  time.  There  may 
be  nothing  for  her  to  do.  If  so  she  may  sit  in  the 
window  and  look  out  over  the  square.  It  is  worth 
looking  at,  I  assure  you.  There  is  always  a  row 
of  pigeons  or  sparrows  on  the  rim  of  the  fountain 
struggling  for  a  chance  to  drink  or  bathe.  There 
are  familiar  old  horses,  attached  to  delivery 
wagons,  that  stroll  unattended  to  the  fountain 
for  a  drink,  and  pay  absolutely  no  attention  to 
the  motors  that  roar  and  honk  and  rattle  by. 

And  there  are  always  interesting  people  in 
the  square,  and  loafers  holding  up  posts  and  con 
ferring  weightily  on  questions  of  national  impor 
tance,  and  at  certain  regular  periods  the  mill 
blows  off  steam  and  the  pigeons  all  rise  in  terror, 
and  you  wonder  if  you  can  hold  your  breath  as 
long  as  the  steam  blows  and  find  you  cannot, 
and  when  the  roar  stops  the  square  seems  silent 
by  contrast. 

And  there  are  always  two  or  three  crows  fly 
ing  in  from  the  marshes,  and  making  their  slow 
progress  high  over  the  tall  elms  and  far  above 
the  church  spire  and  the  Goddess  of  Justice  on 
the  town  hall. 

So  a  person  can  do  no  better,  if  he  has  a  few 
minutes  at  his  disposal,  than  to  sit  in  my  window 
and  look  out  over  the  square. 


Visualization  225 

At  precisely  five  minutes  before  the  hour  my 
new  clerk  entered,  bade  me  a  business  "Good- 
morning,"  removed  her  hat  and  coat  and  was  at 
her  table  before  the  stroke  of  nine.  Her  punctu 
ality  was  refreshing,  but  it  savored  quite  a  little 
of  the  schoolma'am.  But  yet  she  did  n't  look  like 
one. 

My  conviction  was  somewhat  shaken,  when, 
in  making  a  suggestion,  she  said,  "Don't  you," 
in  that  markedly  grunting  tone  that  indicates 
a  severe  attack  of  laryngitis,  or  inflamed  and  con 
gested  tonsils,  a  method  of  late  years  affected  by 
schoolma'ams  and  other  highly  educated  people, 
something  like  this:  "Don't  gnu?" 

A  half -hour  later,  when  the  papers  I  had  given 
her  were  sorted,  neatly  labelled,  and  I  asked  her 
to  copy  them  in  longhand,  and  offered  to  read 
them  to  her  to  insure  expedition,  her  answer 
upset  my  convictions  completely,  for  she  said 
pleasantly  and  without  the  slightest  attempt  at 
sarcasm:  "Thank  you,  no.  You  need  not  waste 
valuable  time,  for  I  can  duplicate  the  slips  with 
greater  accuracy  and  celerity  by  visualization  as 
a  medium  of  coordination,  than  by  auditory 
images." 

I  was  a  little  taken  aback  by  this  broadside  of 
erudition,  but  not  wishing  to  be  completely  non 
plussed  I  at  once  replied  in  the  vernacular  of  the 
trolley  conductor  and  the  fight  fan: 


226      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

"I  don't  plumb  savvy,  lady,  what  them  is, 
but  from  now  on  my  money  is  on  you  from  the 
call  of  time  to  the  tap  of  the  gong." 

I  do  not  think  she  fully  comprehended  me,  but 
after  looking  at  me  very  composedly  and  rather 
frigidly  through  her  pince-nez  glasses,  she  turned 
to  her  task  and  began  to  write  rapidly  and  very 
copper-platedly,  undoubtedly  using  "visualiza 
tion  as  a  medium  of  coordination,"  while  I  con 
ducted  a  masterly  retreat  to  my  private  office. 

Is  that,  on  the  whole,  the  proper  way  to  ad 
dress  one's  employer  on  so  very  short  a  notice? 
It  does  not  seem  so  to  me,  but  perhaps  I  am 
wrong.  At  all  events,  I  feel  sure  that  she  will  see 
that  no  one  in  my  absence  will  take  any  liberties 
with  the  office  property. 

I  feel  little  if  any  doubt  that  she  is  a  school- 
ma'am,  and  I  think  that  with  care  and  atten 
tion  I  may  be  able  to  brush  up  quite  a  bit 
in  the  rudiments  of  spelling,  grammar,  and  the 
arrangement  of  sentences,  as  well  as  history, 
mathematics,  and  doubtless  of  law,  in  all  of  which 
branches  I  am  weak. 

Wednesday,  September  18,  191-.  I  gave  away 
to-day  five  dozen  ears  of  golden  bantam  corn, 
six  cabbages,  a  bushel  or  more  of  beets,  cucum 
bers,  beans,  and  a  quart  of  cream,  besides  cut 
ting  a  lot  of  truck  for  my  cow  and  pigs.  This  is 


An  Office  Pest  227 

one  of  the  delights  of  farming.  Counting  the  ex 
ercise  and  pleasure  as  equal  to  the  expense  and 
the  value  of  your  time,  your  produce  costs  you 
nothing.  Then  your  friends  are  so  pleased  with 
the  fresh  vegetables  that  you  feel  just  so  much 
ahead  and  that  your  farming  has  paid  you  well. 

I  took  so  long  to  pick  my  gift  vegetables,  to 
wash  them  with  the  garden  hose,  and  to  pack 
them  and  take  them  round  to  my  friends,  that  I 
was  late  at  the  office. 

My  little  schoolma'am  was  on  deck  and  anx 
ious  for  work.  So  as  soon  as  I  told  her  what  to  do 
I  went  to  my  private  office  to  work  on  a  brief 
that  required  concentration,  when  I  heard  rapid 
and  aggressive  footsteps  bounding  up  the  stairs.  I 
recognized  them  as  the  footsteps  of  one  of  those 
office  pests  who  breeze  into  one's  office  making 
all  the  noise  he  can,  slaps  you  on  the  back,  is  fresh 
with  your  clerk,  calls  you  "Old  Man,"  puts  his 
feet  on  your  office  table,  lights  a  cigarette  that 
smells  like  a  fire  in  a  livery  stable  when  several 
horses  have  been  burned,  and  tells  a  story  that 
is  an  offence  equally  to  good  taste  and  to  de 
cency. 

I  waited  and  chuckled.  I  knew  something  would 
happen.  Something  did.  There  were  rapid  steps 
through  the  hall,  the  rattle  of  the  knob,  and  the 
fluff-fluff  of  the  window  curtains  as  the  door  flew 
open,  and  his  great  voice  boomed  out. 


228      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

"Hullo,  little  sister,  is  old  man  Pooh  Bah  in?" 
There  was  a  long  and  chilling  pause  during 
which  I  could  mentally  visualize  if  not  actually 
see  her  bespectacled  glance  burning  deep  into 
his  abashed  vitals.  Then  she  spoke  coldly,  and 
with  a  ring  of  very  schoolma'amish  decision  in 
her  voice. 

"Judge  Shute  is  in  his  private  office.  If  it  be 
possible  for  you  to  knock  on  his  door  without 
breaking  the  panels,  he  may  be  willing  to  see 

you." 

In  a  moment  a  subdued  and  very  uncertain 
tap  sounded,  and  a  very  awed  and  impressed 
man  tiptoed  into  my  office,  closed  the  door  softly, 
and  whispered,  "Gosh!  Where  did  you  pick  up 
the  Ice-Cold  Soda  Fountain?" 

For  the  first  time  in  history  our  interview  was 
short,  businesslike,  and  satisfactory,  and  when 
he  left  he  asked  permission  to  go  out  by  the  other 
door  so  as  not  to  be  compelled  to  face  her  glit 
tering  spectacles  again.  As  he  left  the  room  he 
turned  and  in  a  hoarse  whisper  said: 

"Is  the  freezer  permanent?" 

"I  trust  so,"  I  answered. 

"Do  you  expect  to  have  any  business?"  he 
whispered. 

"I  certainly  do,"  I  replied,  "but  not  your 
kind." 

Really  there  are  points  about  this  young  lady 


A  Fair  Bouncer  229 

that  are  most  commendable.  This  pest  was  re 
duced  to  his  least  common  denominator  as 
quickly  as  I  had  ever  seen  it  done,  and  I  had 
good-naturedly  suffered  from  this  infliction  for 
years. 

I  do  not  dare  to  think  how  much  I  might  have 
saved  from  the  rapacious  maws  of  book  agents, 
typewriter-supply  men,  rubber-stamp  peddlers, 
magazine-subscription  young  ladies;  unknown 
youth  struggling  to  work  their  way  through  col 
lege,  who  never  send  the  magazines  you  subscribe 
for;  sad-faced  women  of  advanced  years  seeking 
aid  for  a  poor  woman  in  Iowa  whose  home  had 
been  blown  away  in  a  tornado;  colored  ladies 
soliciting  funds  for  the  University  of  Ethiopia; 
local  firemen  offering  tickets  for  competitive 
squirts;  I.O.O.F.  solicitors  conducting  lotteries 
for  a  three  days'  fair;  ladies  with  spectacles  de 
manding  subscriptions  for  the  new  church  organ 
or  for  a  carpet  for  the  small  vestry;  and  the  thou 
sand  and  one  Jabberwocks  of  business,  that  with 
eyes  of  flame  come  whiffling  through  the  Tulgey 
Wood  with  loud  and  joyful  burble  and  take  toll 
of  my  none  too  ample  income. 

Had  this  competent  and  resolute  young  woman, 
or  one  like  her,  drifted  into  my  orbit  years  ago, 
I  really  do  not  know  what  might  have  hap 
pened.  I  know  what  certainly  would  have 
happened.  I  would  have  been  spared  much  waste 


230      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

of  time  and  money  and  unlimited  annoyance,  and 
would  have  won  the  enviable  reputation  of  be 
ing  a  man  independent  of  thought  and  action, 
who  did  n't  allow  himself  to  be  bothered  by 
cheeky  mendicants,  instead  of  having  the  repu 
tation  of  being  a  sort  of  good-natured  but  weak 
old  cuss  who  cannot  say  no. 

Thursday,  September  19,  191-.  If  green  corn,  new 
beets,  butterbeans,  little  purple-topped  turnips 
were  always  accessible  in  a  fresh  state  I  should 
no  longer  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  the  vege 
tarian.  But  none  the  less  I  should  not  willingly 
employ  him  to  do  hard  work.  I  suppose,  should 
this  statement  be  read  by  a  vegetarian,  straight 
way  the  whole  tribe  of  vegetarians  would  rise, 
mightily  refreshed  by  their  hearty  and  invig 
orating  meal  of  hickory  nuts,  lettuce,  and  dis 
tilled  soft  water,  and  denounce  me  as  a  coarse 
and  unregenerate  meat-eater,  a  kit  er  of  helpless 
animals,  a  fattener  on  the  flesh  of  innocents. 

All  the  same  I  take  so  kindly  to  a  broiled 
chicken  or  roast  fowl,  to  a  juicy  steak  or  chop, 
a  rare  or  medium  roast,  a  succulent  sparerib,  a 
crisp  ham  and  eggs,  a  brace  of  sputtering  sau 
sages,  that  when  I  have  satisfied  the  demands  of 
a  naturally  healthy  appetite,  there  is  little  left. 
"If  this  be  treason  make  the  most  of  it." 
Read  if  you  will,  Dickens's  description  of  a 


The  Stew  of  the  "  Jolly  Sandboys  "        231 

stew  that  the  landlord  of  the  Jolly  Sandboys 
prepared  for  the  itinerant  showmen  of  various 
kinds: 

"Mr.  Codlin  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  lips, 
and  said  in  a  murmuring  voice,  'What  is  it?' 

"  *  It 's  a  stew  of  tripe,'said  the  landlord, smack 
ing  his  lips,  'and  cow-heel,'  smacking  them  again, 
'and  bacon,'  smacking  them  once  more,  'and 
steak,'  smacking  them  for  the  fourth  time,  'and 
peas,  cauliflowers,  new  potatoes  and  sparrow- 
grass,  all  worked  up  together  in  one  delicious 
gravy.' 

"Having  come  to  this  climax,  he  smacked  his 
lips  a  great  many  times,  and  taking  a  long,  hearty 
sniff  of  the  fragrance  that  was  hovering  about, 
put  on  the  cover  again  with  the  air  of  one  whose 
toils  on  earth  were  over." 

Friday,  September  20,  191-.  By  means  of  the 
schoolma'am,  who  is  a  glutton  for  office  work,  I 
managed  to  do  quite  a  lot  of  work  on  the  farm. 
I  dug  a  half-dozen  bushels  of  potatoes,  bagged 
them  and  wheelbarrowed  them  to  the  cellar. 
I  picked  a  peck  or  so  of  shell  beans;  that  is  to 
say,  there  was  a  peck  of  the  beans  after  the  re 
moval  of  about  a  bushel  of  pods.  This  took  time 
and  was  the  acid  test  of  my  thumbnails.  Then 
I  picked  some  late  cucumbers  and  string  beans, 
a  bushel  or  so,  all  of  which  my  wife  is  canning,  or 


232      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

bottling,  or  glassing,  or  embalming,  or  putting 
down,  whatever  may  be  the  proper  term. 

Saturday,  September  21,  191-.  If  I  could  have  a 
real  truck  farm  I  believe  I  could  raise  milk  with 
practically  no  expense.  My  cow  eats  greens  of 
all  kinds  fronTmorning  until  night  and  her  sides 
stick  out  as  tight  as  a  drum.  Got  caught  at  the 
office  this  afternoon.  Dick  was  away  and  I 
could  n't  pass  the  matter  over  to  him. 

Sunday,  September  22,  191-.  When  I  was  a  boy 
and  was  not  allowed  to  work  on  Sunday,  and  was 
compelled  by  stern  parental  command  to  go  to 
church  and  Sunday  School  except  on  stormy 
days,  it  was  my  infernal  luck  to  experience  a  regu 
lar  procession  of  fair  Sundays  extending  through 
the  entire  year. 

Now  I  am  a  man,  and  able  to  do  about  as  I 
wish  on  the  Sabbath  —  and  I  generally  wish  to 
work  on  my  farm,  my  barn,  my  garden,  or  my 
woodpile,  —  an  unbroken  succession  of  rainy 
Sundays  is  my  lot.  It  rained  to-day. 

Monday,  September  23,  191-.  Still  raining.  I  de 
cided  to  do  an  extraordinary  amount  of  work  in 
the  office  to-day  with  the  aid  and  cooperation 
of  my  schoolma'am  clerk.  To  this  effect  I  took  the 
result  of  a  couple  of  hours'  hard  work  on  some 


Higher  Mathematics  233 

promissory  notes  into  her  office  and  asked  her 
if  she  would  verify  the  figures,  and  told  her  to 
take  her  time,  as  the  results  were  important. 

She  promptly  laid  aside  her  pen,  glanced  at 
my  work,  and  asked  me  whether  I  used  the  Amal- 
fian,  Sempronian,  or  Lycinian  method,  and  when 
I  told  her  I  used  the  method  of  one  Colburn  and 
one  Greenleaf  in  their  standard  works  on  the  sub 
ject,  she  replied,  all  the  while  figuring  with  as 
tounding  rapidity,  that  she  ordinarily  attained 
greater  accuracy  by  the  use  of  Suffield's  method 
of  Synthetic  Division. 

She  also  asked  me  if  I  had  read  Jeremy  Ben- 
tham's  Letters  on  Usury  written  in  1787,  and 
when  I  was  forced  to  admit  that  I  had  not,  went 
on  to  say  that  Locke,  Hume,  and  Adam  Smith 
had  entertained  views  mainly  in  accordance  with 
those  of  Bentham,  and  that  the  Sempronian  Law 
extended  a  uniform  legislation  on  the  subject. 

I  was  exceedingly  gratified  to  hear  this,  and 
spoke  of  how  pleased  Sempronius  must  have 
been  to  have  received  the  commendation  of  such 
men  as  Locke  and  Hume  and  Adam  Smith  and 
Jeremy  Bentham. 

She  said  that,  inasmuch  as  quite  a  number 
of  centuries  had  elapsed  between  the  death  of 
Sempronius  and  the  birth  of  the  four  other  gen 
tlemen,  he  had  missed  that  gratification  unless  he 
had  been  present  in  a  somewhat  nebulous  state. 


234      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Then  before  the  hot  blush  of  mortification  had 
retired  below  my  collar,  she  confirmed  my  figures, 
having  performed  in  ten  minutes  and  with  per 
fect  ease  that  which  I  had  toiled  at  painfully  and 
profanely  a  full  two  hours,  multiplying  and  di 
viding  and  adding  and  subtracting,  and  carry 
ing  figures  to  the  next  column,  and  borrowing 
one,  and  moving  decimal  points  from  place  to 
place  and  dad-blaming  the  dingblasted  luck  in 
losing  my  interest  tables. 

I  was  amazed.  Interest  simple,  compound,  an 
nual,  and  even  the  New  Hampshire  rule,  lost 
their  terrors.  While  I  could  not  hope  to  compre 
hend  her  method,  I  could  at  least  hunt  up  all  the 
promissory  notes  entrusted  to  me  and  have  them 
scientifically  brought  to  date. 

I  am  wondering  if  she  is  an  isolated  specimen, 
or  have  modern  educational  methods  developed 
a  select  species? 

I  am  inclined  to  the  latter  belief  and  I  rejoice 
therein,  thereat,  and  there-on-account-of .  I  have 
learned  of  her  something  of  the  grammatical  dis 
tinctions  between  "may"  and  "can,"  "will" 
and  "shall."  I  have  learned  some  of  the  rules 
governing  the  use  of  "a"  and  "i"  in  words  de 
rived  from  the  Latin.  I  have  learned  the  correct 
spelling  of  "comparative"  and  "comparison" 
without  confounding  them. 

I  can  say  "are  n't"  fully  half  the  time,  and  am 


Developing  My  Grip  235 

trying  hard  and  faithfully  to  discard  the  "ain't" 
of  the  masses.  But  I  balk  on  "nyether."  There  is 
too  strong  a  local  prejudice  against  its  use.  But 
in  other  respects  my  mind  is  open.  Oh,  yes,  I  am 
learning!  But  alas!  school  opens  next  week,  and 
as  I  cannot  pay  the  immense  salaries  lavished 
by  our  municipality  upon  our  schoolma'ams,  my 
course  will,  I  fear,  cease  rather  abruptly.  And 
she  is  a  farmer's  daughter ! 

Tuesday,  September  24, 191-.  A  pleasant  day  with 
everything  too  wet  to  work  out.  I  find  that 
regular  milking  for  several  months  has  greatly 
strengthened  my  wrists.  When  I  was  a  boy  at 
school  there  were  a  number  of  boys  from  the  farm 
in  the  neighboring  towns.  There  was  a  marked 
difference  between  the  farm  boy  and  the  town 
boy.  The  farm  boys  worked  harder  in  school  and 
generally  took  all  the  prizes.  They  could  not 
throw  stones  as  well  as  the  town  boys,  nor  were 
they  as  good  baseball  players.  But  they  were 
far  better  football  players,  and  when  it  came  to 
games  that  required  strength  they  were  easily 
the  superiors  of  the  town  boy. 

I  remember  very  distinctly  how  strong  they 
were  in  their  arms  and  what  a  grip  they  had. 

Wednesday,  September  25, 191-.  Dug  three  bushels 
of  potatoes  to-day.  All  in  good  shape. 


236      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Thursday,  September  26,  191-.  As  the  days  begin 
to  be  crisp  with  the  fall  weather  I  wish  I  had  a 
saddle  horse.  I  rode  for  many  years  until  the  au 
tomobile  made  riding  and  driving  a  task  rather 
than  a  pleasure.  There  is  little  pleasure  or  ex 
hilaration  in  going  from  place  to  place  mainly 
in  the  gutter  to  avoid  being  squashed  flat  by 
truck,  touring-car,  or  runabout. 

Friday,  September  27,  191-.  I  forgot  all  about  the 
kingbirds  until  to-day.  They  must  have  been 
gone  nearly  a  month.  They  generally  disappear 
about  September  1  in  this  locality,  and  as  far  as 
I  have  been  able  to  judge  they  serve  no  notice 
of  departure  on  us  by  flocking  or  flying  high. 
They  make  no  change  in  their  habits.  August  31 
they  are  at  their  posts,  making  things  lively  for 
passing  birds,  whatever  their  size,  and  simply 
gorging  the  flies,  bugs,  moths,  and  other  insects, 
and  acting  as  if  they  meant  to  stay  until  Christ 
mas.  September  1  they  have  disappeared  and  no 
man  has  seen  them  depart. 

Saturday,  September  28,  191-.  The  tiny  little 
chipper  birds  have  been  very  prolific  this  sum 
mer.  There  are  flocks  of  them  and  of  the  goldfinch 
around  the  house  and  on  the  lawns.  The  robins 
are  flying  high  and  screaming  in  the  tall  elms, 
but  it  means  little,  for  they  will  be  here  for  six 


/  Lose  My  Schoolma'am,  Alack!         237 

weeks  at  least.  It  is  mainly  the  full-grown  young 
birds.  The  old  birds  are  ragged  and  keep  closer 
to  the  ground  until  their  new  feathers  are  grown. 

Sunday,  September  29,  191-.  A  kingfisher  flew 
over  the  yard  this  morning.  They  are  irregular 
in  their  migration  schedule.  A  few  years  ago  a 
kingfisher  spent  the  entire  winter  around  the 
raceway  of  the  cotton  mill,  across  the  river  from 
my  rear  office.  The  water  there  is  always  open  all 
winter  and  warmed  from  passing  through  or  un 
der  the  mill.  I  have  seen  him  dozens  of  times  dive 
into  the  water  and  bring  out  a  fish  in  midwinter. 
I  could  not  find  out  where  he  spent  the  nights. 
Possibly  in  the  coal  sheds  or  in  the  raceway  tun 
nel.  This  is  probably  not  an  isolated  case,  but 
the  first  and  only  instance  of  the  kind  I  have 
observed  or  heard  of.  The  leaves  are  brilliant  and 
are  beginning  to  fall.  Every  frost  will  bring  them 
down  in  armies. 

Monday,  September  30,  191-.  My  schoolma'am 
clerk  left  on  Saturday.  She  was  thoroughly  effi 
cient  to  the  last  minute  and  I  am  desole  at  losing 
her.  Bless  you,  my  slim  little,  trim  little,  prim 
little  schoolma'am!  If  you  marry  —  and  I  feel 
sure  you  will  —  choose  some  clean,  honest,  able 
young  man  who  knows  but  little  about  the  Amal- 
fian  or  Sempronian  method  or  Suffield's  Syn- 


238      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

thetic  Division,  and  may  you  have  manly  sons 
and  beautiful  daughters  to  rise  up  and  call  you 
blessed,  and  not  adding  machines  that  go  with 
a  crank. 

Tuesday,  October  1,  191-.  The  delightful  weather 
is  affecting  my  cow.  When  I  lead  her  out  to 
her  tether  in  the  morning  she  prances  in  a  cir 
cle  around  me,  shaking  her  head,  taking  short 
jumps,  and  threatening  me  with  her  horns,  and 
occasionally  bolting  and  dragging  me  at  ter 
rific  speed  down  the  yard.  Sometimes  she  pre 
sumes  upon  our  acquaintance  and  I  have  to  give 
her  a  rap  over  the  nose  with  the  end  of  the  rope, 
at  which  she  blinks  and  retires  in  manifest  sur 
prise. 

Wednesday,  October  %,  191-.  Both  Dick  and  I  are 
very  busy  at  the  office,  but  I  manage  to  do  my 
barn  work  and  something  every  day  on  the  place. 
Although  so  early  in  October  it  is  chilly.  But  the 
robins,  and  the  bluebirds,  the  chippies,  the  gold 
finches,  and  other  friends  are  still  with  us,  and 
the  flocks  of  grackles  are  becoming  longer  and 
longer  as  they  fly  over  the  farm  mornings  and 
evenings. 

Thursday,  October  3,  191-.  The  flocks  are  becom 
ing  like  the  old-time  pigeon  flights. 


Habit  239 

Friday,  October  4,  191-.  October  has  managed 
a  light  frost  just  to  say  it  is  a  bit  more  progres 
sive  in  that  line  than  September.  I  have  ordered 
half  a  dozen  cords  of  hickory  wood  according  to 
habit.  This  I  intend  to  have  sawed  by  machine 
and  to  split  it  at  my  lesisure. 

Speaking  of  habit,  it  is  interesting,  at  my  age, 
to  observe  the  ease  with  which  a  habit  is  formed 
and  the  difficulty  with  which  it  is  discarded.  One 
of  the  most  amusing  instances  is  the  following: 

Several  years  ago  I  had  the  front  steps  of  my 
house  rebuilt.  The  carpenter  to  whom  I  entrusted 
the  repairs  must  have  been  a  man  not  having 
the  fear  of  God  in  his  heart,  but  in  other  respects 
was  a  most  worthy  artisan. 

Acting  on  his  passion  for  improvement,  he  built 
the  top  step  a  half -inch  higher  than  it  had  been 
for  years.  I  happened  to  be  the  first  person  to 
use  the  new  steps  after  the  paint  was  dry  and 
the  panels  and  boards  that  barred  ingress  had 
been  removed. 

It  was  "Springtime,  Gentle  Annie,"  and  I  had 
come  from  the  office  laden  with  the  harbingers  of 
spring.  I  had,  I  think,  a  child's  outfit  of  hoe,  rake, 
and  shovel,  a  full-sized  lawn  rake,  a  paper  pack 
age  of  seed  corn,  ditto  of  beans,  ditto  of  peas,  a 
pound  of  butter,  a  dozen  of  fresh  eggs  in  a  paper 
bag,  a  paper  of  tacks,  a  pound  of  freshly  ground 
coffee.  I  may  have  omitted  a  few  articles  from  the 


240      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

enumeration  such  as  a  bunch  of  bananas,  a  gas 
stove,  or  a  commode,  but  I  am  not  sure. 

I  had  lugged  this  collection  from  the  stores  to 
my  house,  a  distance  of  over  half  a  mile,  and 
by  the  time  I  got  there  every  tendon  in  my  arms, 
back,  and  chest  was  strained  to  the  breaking 
point,  and  my  temper  was  similarly  strained  ow 
ing  to  the  fact  that  the  only  way  I  had  been  able 
to  keep  my  hat  on  in  the  fresh  spring  breeze  was 
by  stopping  at  various  trees  on  the  way  and  but 
ting  my  head  against  them  to  force  my  then 
fashionable  derby  down  to  my  ears. 

Everything  was  slipping,  and  to  avoid  disaster 
I  bounded  up  the  steps,  caught  my  toe  on  the 
extra  half -inch  of  step,  shot  my  head  and  most 
of  my  hardware  and  the  lurid  contents  of  a  dozen 
eggs  through  the  screen  door,  and  scattered  peas, 
beans,  and  seed  corn  over  the  entire  neighbor 
hood. 

I  was  passing  suitable  comments  on  the  situa 
tion  when  my  wife  appeared  and  asked  if  I  had 
fallen,  whereupon  my  comments  became  almost 
sublime  in  their  picturesque  intensity. 

But  for  weeks  afterwards  we  derived  the  great 
est  enjoyment  from  the  ownership  of  these  steps. 
Every  one  of  my  friends  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
running  in  of  an  evening  invariably  fell  flat  in 
negotiating  that  top  step  and  scattered  various 
articles  over  the  piazza. 


The  Delights  of  Habit  241 

I  do  not  remember  having  a  more  enjoyable 
spring  and  summer.  Pleasant  evenings  we  would 
hurry  through  our  various  tasks  and  take  our 
seats  on  the  piazza  and  wait  like  spiders  in  a 
web. 

A  fat  woman  from  the  country  would  drive  up, 
tie  her  horse  to  a  valuable  blue  birch  or  smoke 
bush,  then  puffingly  ascend  the  steps  with  a  ten- 
quart  pail  of  blueberries  or  raspberries,  fall  pros 
trate  and  spill  quarts  of  berries  over  us,  which, 
after  she  had  retired  with  loud  lamentations, 
we  would  collect  and  devour,  without  money  and 
without  price. 

Then  a  musical  neighbor  would  lightly  run  up 
the  steps  with  her  arms  full  of  classical  duets 
for  the  piano,  which  she  wished  to  play  with  my 
wife,  and  would  trip  and  skitter  all  over  the 
piazza  and  scatter  "Gems  from  Stephen  Foster," 
and  "Excerpts  from  Mendelssohn's  'Midsum 
mer  Night's  Dream,'  "  and  "Transcriptions  from 
Beethoven's '  Moonlight  Sonata,' '  "  Last  Hopes  " 
of  Gottschalk,  and  "Rides  of  the  Valkyries"  over 
the  entire  neighborhood. 

Again,  a  very  spruce  and  up-to-date  youth, 
with  the  superb  agility  of  the  chamois  and  of 
youth,  would  lightly  leap  up  the  steps,  bearing 
a  sheaf  of  roses  that  exactly  measured  his  credit 
at  the  greenhouse,  only  to  fall  resoundingly,  to 
rise  painfully,  and  in  his  mortification  to  sputter 


242      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

a  word  or  a  sentiment  that  he  would  have  given 
worlds  to  recall. 

It  was  noticeable  that  no  stranger  had  any 
trouble.  Our  friends  and  those  coming  frequently 
were  the  ones  that  fell.  I  felt  bereaved  and  de 
prived  of  my  just  rights  when  I  had  the  addi 
tional  half -inch  of  step  cut  down. 

Another  habit  that  in  its  dreadful  effect  puts 
it  in  the  same  class  with  the  drink  habit,  the 
drug  habit,  and  that  sort  of  malignant  gossip 
known  as  "head-hunting,"  is  the  habit  of  throw 
ing  rugs  out  of  the  window  without  the  constant 
presence  of  an  official  announcer. 

I  maintain  that  there  should  be  a  law  enacted 
that  would  compel  every  person  afflicted  with 
the  out-of-the-window-rug-throwing-habit,  un 
der  the  heaviest  penalties,  to  maintain  an  an 
nouncer  whose  duties  are  to  shout,  "Look  out 
for  your  heads,  rugs  coming,"  just  as  a  mounted 
Oriental  in  gorgeous  robes  of  state  rides  furiously 
ahead  of  circus  processions  shouting: 

"  Look  out  for  your  horses, 
The  Elephants  are  coming!" 

I  hate  to  mention  it,  and  hate  more  to  ac 
knowledge  it,  but  there  is  a  member  of  my  house 
hold  addicted  to  this  habit  of  rug  marksmanship. 

There  is,  to  be  sure,  an  element  of  humor  in 
bringing  a  strong  man  and  several  quarts  of  milk 
to  his  knees  and  to  temporary  oblivion  beneath 


The  Accursedness  of  Habit  243 

the  dusty  folds  of  a  heavy  rug  flying  from  a  two- 
story  window.  But  after  he  has  clawed  and  crawled 
his  way  out,  preceded  by  muffled  but  perfectly 
recognizable  profanity,  and  you  have  led  him  to 
the  sink  and  have  washed  the  dust  out  of  his  eyes 
and  ears,  and  have  given  him  a  drink  and  a  cigar, 
and  have  ordered  three  quarts  of  milk  a  day  in 
stead  of  one  (this  was  before  I  bought  my  cow),  to 
soothe  him,  and  have  promised  him  that  you  will 
see  that  it  never  occurs  again,  you  feel  that  you 
got  out  of  it  easier  than  some  one  deserved. 

It  was  a  bit  different  with  the  Italian  fruit 
dealer.  I  felt  obliged  to  settle  with  him.  He  de 
clined  the  drink  "per  Bacco";  he  refused  the 
cigar,  "carrambissimo!"  He  refused  to  consider 
the  purchase  of  a  whole  bunch  of  bananas, 
"  Chr-r-r-r-isto ! "  I  decline  to  say  what  it  cost 
me.  I  thought  at  the  time  he  was  hard.  I  thought 
so  up  to  yesterday.  I  do  not  think  so  now.  Had 
I  been  in  his  place  I  certainly  should  not  have 
settled  for  twice  the  amount.  At  least  that  is  the 
way  I  feel  about  it  now. 

You  see  I  was  leading  my  cow  through  my  yard 
peacefully,  quietly,  and  with  no  guile  in  my 
heart.  I  was  several  feet  ahead,  she  behind.  In 
my  hand  firmly  clasped  was  a  strong  rope  at 
tached  to  the  heavy  leather  headstall  which  she 
wore.  Suddenly  there  was  a  snort  behind  me,  a  ter 
rific  yank  of  the  halter.  I  was  twitched  violently 


244      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

into  the  air  and  slat  —  literally  slat  —  clear 
across  the  driveway.  My  heels  fairly  snapped 
in  the  air.  When  I  groggily  rose  to  my  feet  I  con 
fronted  a  cow  with  upraised  ears  and  with  wild 
eyes  staring  at  a  cloud  of  dust  in  the  midst  of 
which  lay  a  voluminous  and  dustily  variegated  rug. 
And  so  I  say  this  habit  is  in  the  same  class  as  the 
drink  habit  and  the  drug  habit,  and  I  look  for 
ward  to  the  time  when  hospitals  will  be  widely 
established  for  its  cure  and  rigorous  laws  enacted 
for  its  prevention. 

Saturday,  October  5,  191-.  Tried  some  of  my 
celery  to-day.  It  seemed  extremely  strong  and 
flourishing  on  the  tops,  but  although  I  had 
banked  it  well,  it  was  neither  crisp  nor  white.  I 
have  evidently  not  the  wizard's  touch,  when  it 
comes  to  celery. 

Three  cords  of  hickory  and  pitch-pine  landed 
to-day.  In  spite  of  positive  instructions  given, 
the  cartman  piled  it  just  where  it  completely 
blocked  entrance  to,  and  exit  from,  my  barn.  I 
had  to  throw  it  over  and  re-pile  it  in  another 
place,  and  to-night  I  am  dead  tired,  a  mass  of 
pitch  and  splinters,  and  feel  like  a  hedgehog.  I 
can  at  least  rest  to-morrow,  as  it  is  Sunday. 

Sunday,  October  6, 191-.  Spent  most  of  this  sacred 
day  in  pulling  splinters  out  of  my  hands  and 


A  Human  Pine  Knot  245 

other  parts  of  me  and  letting  out  staccato  howls. 
The  first  thing  I  shall  do  to-morrow  is  to  buy  me 
a  pair  of  lumberman's  leather-faced  mittens.  If 
I  had  had  them  last  night  I  should  have  felt  less 
like  a  family  pincushion  or  a  rough  pine  knot 
to-day.  Were  it  not  too  late  in  the  season  I  might 
expect  a  pine  grosbeak  to  build  a  nest  in  me  and 
raise  a  brood,  or  a  woodpecker  to  begin  to  ex 
cavate  a  tunnel  in  me. 

Monday,  October  7,  191-.  I  bought  the  lumber 
man's  mittens  to-day.  Also  an  axe  with  a  rather 
short,  curved  handle.  I  am  very  particular  about 
the  hang  of  my  axe,  as  a  good  woodsman  should 
be.  With  a  well-balanced  axe  and  the  right  sort 
of  wood,  wood  splitting  can  be  made  an  art  as 
well  as  a  pleasure.  I  have  often  been  asked  why 
I  did  not  play  golf.  I  did  take  it  up  nearly  twenty 
years  ago  and  found  that  I  could  not  afford  the 
time  or  the  strain  on  my  lingual  limitations. 

So  I  gave  it  up  before  I  became  a  hopeless  fan. 
It  was  really  a  most  delightful  game,  at  once 
democratic  and  suited  to  all  times  of  life,  as  is 
no  other  game  under  the  sun.  But  if  one  thinks 
golf  is  the  only  game  of  skill  let  him  try  split 
ting  wood,  using  a  sharp  axe  with  a  rather  short, 
curved  handle,  on  a  block  two  feet  across  and 
three  feet  high.  It  is  really  good  fun  and  gives 
one  ample  opportunity  to  develop  skill. 


246      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

And  as  for  the  nineteenth  hole,  why,  bless 
your  soul,  after  one  has  worked  an  hour  at  the 
woodpile  of  a  crisp,  frosty  morning,  the  break 
fast  of  muffins,  bacon,  and  coffee  is,  in  my 
opinion,  far  superior  to  anything  the  nine 
teenth  hole  ever  afforded  or  ever  will  afford. 

And  so  I  always  welcome  the  annual  return  of 
the  woodpile, 

Tuesday,  October  8,  191-.  Am  gradually  putting 
my  crops  into  storage.  I  am  not  especially  keen 
about  digging  potatoes.  It  perilously  approaches 
drudgery.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  lifting  and 
bending  over,  and  there  is  nothing  particularly 
stimulating  about  a  bag  or  a  wheelbarrow.  I 
wonder  if  it  is  because  I  am  not  a  good  finisher? 
—  that  I  do  not  carry  through?  I  do  not  quite 
think  so. 

It  is  far  more  interesting  to  plant,  for  you  do 
that  with  a  very  delightful  feeling  of  expecta 
tion.  And  in  hand-weeding  or  hoeing  you  see  the 
results  immediately  in  the  trim  appearance  of 
your  rows  of  vegetables  or  fruits. 

To  be  sure,  there  is  a  satisfaction  in  seeing  a 
cellar  well  filled  with  crops,  but  the  lugging  in 
and  storing  is  plain,  prosaic  work.  I  much  pre 
fer  splitting  wood. 

The  machine  came  to-day  and  sawed  up  the 
three  cords  of  wood. 


The  Doctor  is  Jocose  247 

Wednesday,  October  9,  191-.  I  tried  my  new  axe 
to-day.  The  doctor  says  I  was  very  lucky  to  get 
off  as  I  did,  and  that  unless  blood-poisoning  sets 
in  I  will  have  but  little  trouble. 

Thursday,  October  10,  191-.  A  stout  cane  is  all  I 
need.  But  I  have  to  be  careful  and  not  break  the 
plaster  cast.  I  feel  like  a  Rogers  Group. 

Friday,  October  11,  191-.  My  friend  Angus,  who 
has  charge  of  the  next  estate,  does  the  milking 
now.  I  am  going  to  have  the  doctor  put  on  a  new 
plaster  cast  so  I  can  bend  my  leg.  Then  I  can  sit 
down  and  milk.  My  hands  and  arms  are  all  right. 

Saturday,  October  12, 191-.  Evidently  blood-poi 
soning  has  not  set  in  and  now  I  can  milk  again. 
The  doctor  says  there  is  a  special  providence  that 
watches  over  fools  and  drunken  men.  He  might 
at  least  have  coined  something  new,  if  he  wanted 
to  be  jocose. 

Sunday,  October  13,  191-.  It  was  crisp  and  cool 
to-night.  I  was  feeling  the  need  of  exercise  badly 
as  I  had  had  an  especially  trying  day  in  the 
office.  So  I  lighted  two  lanterns,  stood  them  on 
the  woodpile,  and  started  in  splitting.  I  enjoyed 
it  very  much  and  incidentally  must  replace  the 
globe  of  one  lantern.  It  was  an  excellent  shot  and 


248      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

I  am  proud  of  it.  My  wife  says  it  served  me  right 
for  splitting  wood  on  the  Sabbath. 

Monday,  October  14,  191-.  Finished  my  potato 
digging  to-day.  I  have  seventeen  bushels  of  good, 
clean  Early  Rose  and  Irish  Cobbler  potatoes  in 
a  bin  besides  several  bushels  of  small  ones  with 
which  I  shall  feed  and  gradually  ripen  my  pigs. 
Really  they  are  hogs  now  and  the  next  few  weeks 
will  make  a  great  difference  in  their  weight  and 
general  appearance.  I  am  feeding  corn  meal  now 
with  milk  and  potatoes.  I  only  hope  their  skins 
will  stretch  as  fast  as  they  grow.  If  not  they  will 
look  like  a  chestnut  burr  after  a  hard  frost,  or 
like  an  overboiled  potato. 

They  are  certainly  great  animals  and  enjoy 
life,  having  attained  the  poet's  philosophy  to 

"  Carpe  diem,  quam  minimum 
Credula  postero" 

Tuesday,  October  15,  191-.  Got  another  lantern 
globe  to-night.  I  thought  it  was  out  of  gunshot, 
or  rather  of  splitshot,  but  I  got  it.  It  was  a 
straight  bull's-eye  and  it  went  into  nine  thou 
sand  fragments.  It  was  a  new  globe  on  the  same 
lantern.  I  must  hereafter  be  more  impartial.  The 
other  lantern  may  feel  hurt. 

I  have  decided  that  when  I  split  wood  I  must 
have  the  entire  yard  to  myself.  It  would  be  har- 


/  tried  my  new  axe  to-day 


Migrations  249 

rowing  in  the  extreme  to  have  some  injured  per 
son  take  my  farm  under  an  execution  obtained 
in  an  action  of  tort  for  personal  injuries. 

Wednesday,  October  16,  191-.  Every  now  and 
then  I  see  and  hear  a  bird  from  the  North  which 
stayed  a  few  days  here  last  spring  and  then 
passed  on.  I  cannot  help  wondering  about  the 
kingbirds.  The  only  reason  why  the  kingbirds 
disappear  so  suddenly  is,  I  believe,  that  they 
seldom  go  farther  North.  Otherwise  we  should, 
I  am  sure,  have  a  season  of  migrating  kingbirds 
that  would  last  some  weeks. 

That  this  is  not  the  case  I  am  convinced.  The 
kingbirds  that  are  here  all  summer,  alighting  on 
the  same  fence-posts,  defending  the  same  nests 
and  roosting-places,  chasing  the  same  crows  as 
they  do  day  after  day  and  week  after  week,  dis 
appear  overnight  and  no  others  take  their  places. 
My  leg  is  nearly  well  again. 

Thursday,  October  17, 191-.  If  one  sits  in  the  open 
any  warm  evening  now,  or  cool  evening,  as  for 
that,  only  the  average  person  does  not  sit  in  the 
open  on  a  cool  evening,  the  high  clear  call  of  mi 
grating  birds  may  be  heard,  coming  down  from 
the  sky,  and  sometimes,  of  a  moonlight  night,  a 
row  of  dots  passes  rapidly  across  the  yellow  disk 
of  the  moon. 


250      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

It  gives  one  a  curious  feeling.  Almost  a  desire 
to  go  South  with  them  and  to  get  rid  of  the  win 
ter's  wet,  cold,  and  dreariness.  The  doctor  took 
off  the  cast  to-day.  I  shall  have  a  scar,  but  as 
the  fashion  of  wearing  trousers  still  persists,  it 
will  not  add  to  or  detract  from  my  charms. 

Friday,  October  18, 191-.  There  is  a  nut  tree  in  my 
yard.  The  nuts  are  small  and  scarcely  worth 
gathering;  at  least  we  think  so.  It  is  fortunate 
they  are  small,  for  we  are  spared  the  necessity  of 
early  and  rapid  work  to  preserve  our  crop.  A  few 
years  ago  a  law  was  passed  by  our  Solons  es 
tablishing  a  close  season  on  gray  squirrels  for  a 
period  of  years.  As  a  result  they  are  very  numer 
ous  and  not  tame  enough  to  be  a  nuisance  and 
the  way  they  work  in  gathering  the  nuts  is  re 
freshing  in  this  day  of  short  working  hours. 

They  eat  hundreds  of  the  nuts;  they  carry  away 
to  their  nests  and  holes  thousands;  they  bury 
millions;  and  each  spring  with  my  trusty  lawn- 
mower  I  cut  down  countless  tiny  hickory  shoots 
and  serve  them  to  my  stock. 

Leg  nearly  well. 

Saturday,  October  19,  191-.  One  of  the  pleasures 
of  October  is  raking  and  storing  dry  leaves  for 
the  winter.  The  farmer  claims  that  leaves  are 
cold  and  have  no  value  as  bedding.  I  do  not  find 


Dead  Leaves  251 

them  so.  It  all  depends  upon  storing  them  when 
perfectly  dry.  And  a  dry  leaf  is  drier  than  any 
thing  I  know.  Yes,  even  drier  than  a  no-license 
town,  because  in  the  latter  there  may  always  be 
found  some  sort  of  an  oasis. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  see  the  delight  of  my  pigs 
when  I  have  filled  their  sleeping  quarters  two  feet 
thick  with  dry  leaves.  Their  little  piggy  eyes 
twinkle,  then  their  tails  take  an  extra  twist,  and 
they  wiggle  their  bodies  with  delight  and  race 
around  like  children  playing. 

Then,  when  they  are  tired,  they  fairly  cover 
themselves  with  leaves  and  snore  most  com 
fortably. 

But  the  farmer  says  rye  or  oat  straw  is  much 
better.  Agreed.  But  rye  or  oat  straw  costs  as 
much  as  hay,  while  leaves  cost  but  the  labor  of 
getting  them  in,  and  that  is  really  a  pleasant 
labor.  And  when  thoroughly  mixed  with  stable 
manure  they  make  the  best  of  fertilizer. 

And  as  for  scratching  material  in  which  to  throw 
grain  for  your  fowl,  there  is  nothing  better,  if 
changed  often  enough  to  prevent  them  from 
being  powdered  by  constant  scratching. 

Sunday,  October  20, 191-.  Rainy  to-day  —  a  cold, 
shivery,  wet  rain;  a  rain  that  will  strike  through 
a  rain  coat  and  give  you  a  coat  of  goose  pimples 
of  a  quarter  of  an  inch  elevation;  a  rain  that  will 


252      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

strike  a  chill  through  your  new,  shiny,  dollar- 
and-a-half  rubbers  that  will  reach  to  your  knees. 
I  am  glad  it  did  not  rain  yesterday.  That  is  one 
of  my  most  profitable  office  days  when  farm 
ers  and  working-men  quit  afternoons  and  drop  in 
for  a  few  dollars'  worth  of  litigation  of  various 
kinds  and  nature.  And  a  rain  of  this  kind  keeps 
them  at  home  husking,  picking  over,  and  sorting 
potatoes  and  apples,  oiling  up  their  motors,  or 
playing  seven-up. 

The  subsidy  of  my  farm  comes  direct  from  my 
office.  No  office,  no  farm. 

Monday,  October  21,  191-.  Weather  very  unset 
tled.  Built  a  fire  in  the  furnace  with  wood  to-day. 
The  open  season  on  furnaces  is  about  due.  I  have 
been  splitting  wood  every  morning  and  evening. 
While  I  am  gaining  in  skill  as  a  splitter,  I  seem 
to  have  lost  my  somewhat  uncanny  marksman 
ship  in  bagging  lantern  globes.  I  did  manage  to 
send  a  stick  whizzing  through  a  window  in  the 
henhouse  this  morning.  This  cheered  me  up  some. 
My  skill  is  not  wholly  gone.  I  do  not  limp  now. 

Tuesday,  October  22,  191-.  A  sunny  day,  but  with 
a  fierce  wind  roaring  in  the  tree-tops.  Lost  my 
pail  of  milk  this  morning.  One  of  the  legs  of  my 
milking-stool  broke  and  let  me  down  suddenly 
flat  on  my  back.  The  cow  kicked  and  knocked 


Indian  Summer  253 

that  pail  fully  a  rod.  Of  course  I  had  just  about 
finished  milking  and  the  pail  was  half  full. 

Well,  I  was  lucky  not  to  be  the  pail.  I  should 
have  been  cherishing  quite  a  dent  in  my  mid 
riff.  Must  get  a  new  stool. 

Wednesday,  October  23,  191-.  A  day  that  beckons 
one  into  the  open.  Just  the  day  to  roam  the  woods, 
to  ride  horseback,  to  shoot  partridges,  to  —  to  — 
yes,  to  split  wood.  I  really  enjoyed  it  to-day, 
although  I  made  no  bull's-eye. 

Thursday,  October  24,  191-.  It  was  warm  to-day. 
Unreasonably  so.  There  was  a  sort  of  blue  haze 
over  the  hills.  The  robins  were  singing  as  in  spring, 
the  blackbirds  were  busy  on  every  cornfield,  the 
squirrels  were  chasing  each  other  through  the 
bare  branches,  and  the  crows  were  making  a 
great  fuss  in  the  grove  which  set  the  jays  scream 
ing.  I  could  shut  my  eyes  and  really  feel  that  it 
was  May  again.  I  sent  for  a  ram  to-day  to  mate 
my  sheep.  The  owner  told  me  he  was  kind  if  you 
kept  your  eye  on  him  and  were  ready  to  get  in 
the  first  lick.  That  no  ram  was  reliable  until 
hung  up  in  a  provision  store.  I  do  not  expect  any 
trouble.  I  shall  face  him  and  drink  to  him  with 
my  eyes.  I  have  seen  the  startling  effects  of  a 
rear  attack.  A  venerable  agriculturist  spoke  of 
the  weather  to-day  as  a  "weather-breeder."  I 


254      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

have  heard  that  expression  many  times.  Just 
what  it  means  I  never  exactly  knew,  but  it  has 
an  ominous  sound. 

Friday,  October  25,  191-.  Alack!  the  time  is  rap 
idly  approaching  when  I  must  part  with  my 
pigs.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  it.  I  feel  as  I  im 
agine  a  man  must  feel  whose  relative  or  intimate 
friend  has  been  convicted  of  murder  and  sen 
tenced  to  death. 

Of  course  I  could  reprieve  them  and  keep  them 
for  years,  but  I  should  in  time  be  ruined  by  pro 
gressive  mortgaging  to  stand  off  the  grain  bills, 
and  there  must  be  no  reprieve. 

Saturday,  October  26,  191-.  The  pigs  are  growing 
tremendously  under  the  combined  stimulus  of 
boiled  potatoes,  milk,  and  corn  meal.  I  have 
had  some  flattering  offers  for  them.  Shall  not 
sell. 

Sunday,  October  27,  191-.  I  am  working  every 
legitimate  and  reasonable  bluff  to  settle  such 
cases  as  are  likely  to  be  marked  for  trial  in  the 
Superior  Court  this  term.  It  is  an  axiom  that 
there  is  more  money  in  settling  actions  than  in 
trying  them.  I  am  working  that  for  all  I  am 
worth.  There  is  so  little  time  now  after  office 
hours  and  before  dark  to  work. 


Old  Acquaintance'  Sake  255 

Monday,  October  28,  191-.  The  blackbirds  are 
beginning  to  flock.  I  have  seen  a  dozen  or  more 
flocks  of  fifty.  Later  on  there  will  be  big  flocks, 
then  armies. 

Tuesday,  October  29,  191-.  I  feel  like  an  acces 
sory  before  the  fact  every  time  I  feed  my  pigs. 
I  wonder  if  a  butcher  ever  dies  a  quiet  and  peace 
ful  death?  I  should  have  raised  mules  instead  of 
pigs. 

Wednesday,  October  30,  191-.  If  I  were  a  psychol 
ogist,  I  might  perhaps  be  able  to  explain  why  it 
is  that  the  fall  chatter  of  a  flock  of  blackbirds 
or  grackles  does  not  remind  one  of  spring,  while 
the  fall  warble  of  a  bluebird  gives  one  the  same 
thrill  that  it  did  in  the  early  spring. 

Thursday,  October  31,  191-.  Pulled  my  cabbages 
and  stored  them  in  the  cellar  farthest  from  the 
furnace.  We  have  had  a  frost  nearly  every  night 
lately,  but  no  freeze  as  yet.  Long  ago  I  forgot  to 
cover  my  tomatoes  and  of  course  the  heaviest 
frost  of  the  season  came  that  night.  They  looked 
thoroughly  discouraged  in  the  morning.  They 
are  very  squashy  now.  Indeed,  I  do  not  believe 
one  would  hold  together  for  a  good  shot  at  a  fat 
man.  I  would  like  to  try  once  for  old  acquaint 
ance'  sake. 


256      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

Friday,  November  1,  191-.  In  Portsmouth  to-day 
at  court.  Did  n't  want  to  be  there,  but  had  to. 
Could  n't  get  back  until  6.20,  and  it  was  too  dark 
for  any  work  except  barn  work  with  a  lantern. 
I  did  not  finish  the  case  and  may  not  get  through 
to-morrow.  I  expect  to  be  taken  for  a  ghost  and 
to  be  shot  at  some  night  as  I  travel  round  with 
old  sheets,  covering  squashes  and  perishable 
vegetables. 

Saturday,  November  2,  191-.  I  finished  the  case 
to-day  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Jury  out 
about  an  hour.  In  some  inscrutable  way  they  de 
cided  my  way.  This  is  a  legal  set-off  to  the  en 
forced  neglect  of  my  farm  for  several  days.  It  is 
such  a  relief  not  to  be  obliged  to  say  to  a  disap 
pointed  client,  "Well,  I  did  my  best  for  you,  old 
man,  but  the  evidence  was  too  strong  for  us." 

I  wonder  how  many  times  I  have  said  that  in 
the  past  twenty-five  years. 

There  is  a  long  list  of  cases  before  another  one 
of  mine  will  be  reached.  Now  for  the  farm. 

Sunday,  November  3,  191-.  My  wife  has  been 
repining  loudly  and  frequently  over  my  unac 
countable  refusal  to  have  the  front  hall  repapered 
according  to  a  promise  she  claims  I  made.  If 
she  could  really  appreciate,  as  I  do,  the  fact  that 
I  have  been  accumulating  a  most  appalling  pile 


A  Burning  Shame,  So  There!!          257 

of  unreceipted  gristmill  bills,  I  think  she  would 
see  the  impossibility  of  fulfilling  a  promise,  which 
I  firmly  deny  having  made,  with  these  bills  star 
ing  me  coldly  in  the  face. 

Instead  of  looking  at  the  matter  in  the  proper 
and  wifely  manner  she  discovers  that  the  ceilings 
of  three  rooms  must  be  whitened  and  the  wood 
work  painted,  and  that  the  overhead  plastering 
of  the  dining-room  is  cracked  in  four  places,  and 
that  the  "condition  of  the  house  is  a  burning 
shame,  so  there!" 

However,  with  great  tact  I  managed  to  steer 
the  conversation  toward  the  proper  distribu 
tion  of  the  pigs  when  reduced  to  portable  frag 
ments  by  skilled  dissection. 

I  have  rather  failed  in  distributing  my  farm 
and  garden  produce  among  my  friends  this  past 
summer,  as  my  cow,  my  sheep,  and  my  pigs  have 
practically  consumed  almost  all  that  we  have 
not  used  on  the  home  table.  The  sole  amende 
honorable  is  to  distribute  among  our  friends  the 
component  parts  of  a  hog.  I  have  two  hogs.  One 
will  surely  carry  us  through  a  long  and  hard  win 
ter.  The  other  is  to  be  given  away.  We  decided 
after  mature  deliberation  that  the  S.'s  shall  have 
one  ham,  the  Y.'s  another;  the  B.'s  one  shoulder, 
the  L.'s  the  other;  a  pail  of  real  lard  shall  gladden 
and  lubricate  the  household  of  M.;  a  sparerib 
shall  make  things  pleasant  for  G.;  a  roast  shall 


258      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

help  N.  banish  the  gristly  spectre  of  famine  from 
his  door;  a  few  dozen  of  chops  shall  convince  G. 
that  God  will  protect  the  poor  working-man; 
a  chine  and  the  chitlins  —  whatever  they  may 
be  —  shall  furnish  P.  with  increased  momentum 
up  the  long  hill;  and  so  on. 

We  really  had  a  most  delightful  time  in  plan 
ning  our  benefactions  and  went  to  bed  feeling  that 
we  were,  indeed,  philanthropists. 

Monday,  November  4,  191-.  Thanksgiving  month. 
It  looks  bad  for  the  pigs.  I  think  I  will  economize 
this  year.  I  have  often  heard  that  a  good  roast 
of  pork,  such  as  mine  is,  or  will  be  when  properly 
dismembered,  is  as  good  as  chicken  or  turkey 
or  goose.  And  as  these  birds  are  going  to  be  ex 
tremely  dear  this  year,  and  as  I  have  the  pigs, 
it  really  seems  a  duty  to  leave  the  turkey,  the 
chicken,  and  the  goose  for  some  one  else.  To  be 
sure,  owing  to  the  untimely  demise  of  Pyg.,  which 
I  have  never  ceased  to  mourn,  my  roast  pork  will 
be  as  expensive  as  the  choicest  turkey,  but  the 
point  is,  I  have  the  roast  and  I  am  spared  the 
necessity  of  buying  turkey. 

Tuesday,  November  5,  191-.  It  is  cold  to-day  and 
I  have  commenced  anew  with  the  furnace.  I  was 
told  that  the  care  of  a  furnace  teaches  one  humil 
ity,  like  a  hair  shirt.  It  may  be  so  with  some,  but  I 


My  Wife  Renigs  259 

am  quite  sure  that  in  my  own  case  the  word  "pro 
fanity"  should  be  substituted  for  "humility." 
Still,  there  is  some  satisfaction  in  diffusing  genial 
warmth  throughout  the  house.  It  is  depressing 
to  one's  finer  feelings  to  assume  the  burden  of 
coal  bills  before  one  has  paid  his  grain  bills. 

Wednesday,  November  6, 191-.  My  wife  is  showing 
a  disposition  to  renig  on  the  distribution  of  the 
pig.  To-day  she  remarked  that  she  had  decided 
not  to  give  away  any  lard,  for  she  had  been  long 
ing  for  a  home-made  doughnut  for  over  a  year, 
and  it  seemed  a  crime  to  give  away  a  pail  of  lard. 

This  abrupt  right-about-face  rather  nettled 
me,  and  I  said  it  was  revolting  extravagance  to 
give  away  a  ham  to  the  S.'s,  whereupon  she 
snapped  that  it  was  just  as  bad  to  give  one  to 
the  Y.'s. 

Upon  my  pointed  and  somewhat  sarcastic  in 
quiry  as  to  whom  the  pigs  belonged,  and  who 
bought  them  and  fed  them  and  cleaned  up  after 
them,  she  returned  a  fervent  and  somewhat  hec 
tic  demand  for  information  as  to  whether  or  not 
she  had  been  obliged  to  clean  up  the  kitchen  and 
indeed  every  room  I  entered  after  I  had  been  in 
that  nasty  barn. 

In  short,  we  quarrelled  rather  bitterly  over 
the  matter.  But  we  are  none  the  less  determined 
to  give  away  one  of  the  pigs,  but  cannot  agree 


260      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

as  to  whom  we  may  saddle  with  our  benefaction. 
However,  there  is  time,  for  the  pigs  are  not  killed 
yet. 

Thursday,  November  7,  191-.  There  was  a  heavy 
frost  last  night,  and  before  I  left  the  barn  at 
noon  I  had  taken  several  rugs  that  had  been 
thrown  out  of  the  window  by  a  certain  person 
whose  name  had  better  not  be  mentioned,  and 
which  (the  rugs  and  not  the  person  in  question) 
had  been  beaten  and  hung  up  on  the  clothesline. 
With  these  rugs  I  had  carefully  covered  several 
bushels  of  unusually  fine  turnips  and  carrots  and 
a  dozen  or  more  most  unusually  fine  squashes 
that  I  had  not  had  time  to  store  in  the  cellar  as  I 
had  done  with  most  of  my  crops. 

This  morning  I  found  that  the  rugs  had  been 
removed  to  the  clothesline,  and  that  the  valuable 
vegetables  that  I  had  petted  and  encouraged  and 
stimulated  and  cared  for  for  six  months  were 
frozen  harder  than  glass  agates.  My  first  idea 
was  to  smash  a  window  in  the  house  with  each 
of  them  and  to  set  fire  to  the  rugs,  and  the  idea 
did  much  to  calm  my  resentment.  I  like  to  think 
up  dreadful  things  to  do,  and  then  not  do  them. 

Still,  I  do  not  feel  pleased  about  the  matter. 
The  old  rugs  would  not  have  been  hurt  by  be 
ing  spread  over  the  vegetables. 

I  had  already  stored  enough  vegetables  to 


A  Cause  for  Divorce  261 

last  me  through  the  winter.  But  some  one  could 
have  used  these  turnips  and  carrots  and  also  the 
squashes.  There  is  just  so  much  less  food  in  the 
world  for  some  one.  I  do  not  like  waste.  Some 
one  may  want  some  new  rugs  some  day,  that's 
all.  The  trouble  with  me  is  that  I  forget  the  dis 
agreeable  things  of  life,  but  I  shall  try  hard  to 
remember  the  rape  of  the  rugs. 

However,  it  is  this  lack  of  sympathy  with  one's 
aims  that  has  made  of  our  court  docket  a  con 
gested  list  of  divorce  libels  and  separate  main 
tenance  petitions.  Beware,  woman!  Even  if  the 
rugs  did  not  cost  more  than  twenty -four  dollars 
each  and  dated  back  to  the  Silurian  Period,  and 
you  had  been  waiting  since  the  dawn  of  Christi 
anity  for  some  decent  furniture  and  did  n't  pro 
pose  to  furnish  covers  for  my  old  vegetables,  and 
that  I  would  be  taking  the  bedclothes  next,  you 
need  n't  have  put  it  in  just  that  way! 

Friday,  November  8,  191-.  I  had  to  be  in  Ports 
mouth  to-day  at  court.  At  four  o'clock  on  the 
way  home  in  a  friend's  automobile,  we  saw  an 
immense  flock  of  grackles.  The  main  body  was 
being  added  to  by  flocks  joining  it  from  corn 
fields  and  marshy  grounds.  We  travelled  three 
or  four  miles  before  the  tail  of  the  procession 
passed  us.  I  never  saw  so  long  a  flock  before.  It 
was  interesting  to  watch  individuals.  Each  bird 


The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

makes  five  rapid  strokes  with  its  wings,  rising  as 
it  does  so,  then  closes  its  wings  and  shoots  down 
to  its  former  level,  then  rises  again.  But  the 
whole  flock  goes  as  straight  as  an  immense  black 
ribbon  and  with  a  chatter  of  bird  voices  that  can 
be  heard  for  miles. 

They  were  fly  ing  north  from  day  feeding  grounds 
to  heavy  woods  for  the  night.  At  six  o'clock  the 
next  morning  the  big  army  will  come  back,  drop 
ping  small  flocks  along  the  line  until  the  army  is 
dissolved  into  thousands  of  scattered  companies, 
to  be  mustered  in  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
This  may  be  the  last  day  they  will  be  with  us. 

Saturday.,  November  9,  191-.  To-day  I  bought  a 
pork  barrel  and  a  bushel  of  coarse  salt.  It  was 
my  first  real  preparation  for  the  execution  of 
my  pet  pigs  and  I  am  not  feeling  a  bit  good  over 
it.  I  wish  I  did  n't  have  to  kill  them.  It  seems 
positively  inhuman.  But  to  keep  them  much 
longer  is  out  of  the  question.  I  don't  dare  to  think 
what  my  pork  will  cost  me  a  pound,  not  counting 
my  labor,  or  my  time,  or  the  physical  setbacks 
that  I  have  suffered  from  chasing  them.  I  still 
shrink  from  calculating  what  they  have  cost  me. 
One  of  the  most  interesting  things  to  me  has 
been  to  have  some  farmer  come  into  my  office  in 
November,  just  after  the  weather  has  become 
gray  and  cold,  and  say: 


I  don't  dare  to  think  what  my  pork  will  cost  me  a  pound 


Patriotism  and  Pigs  263 

"Wall,  I've  got  a  cellar  full  of  'taters,  'n'  tur 
nips,  'n'  squashes,  'n'  cabbages,  'n'  I've  got  a 
bar'l  of  home-raised  pork,  'n'  a  couple  o'  crocks 
of  head  cheese,  'n'  sassige  meat,  'n'  sides,  'n' 
hams,  'n'  shoulders,  'n'  knuckles,  'n'  I  guess  I'm 
ready  fer  cold  weather." 

Why,  it  sounded  much  more  satisfactory  than 
if  he  had  told  me  that  he  had  bought  a  few  blocks 
of  Steel  Preferred  or  United  Fruit! 

And  it  has  been  my  ambition  for  years  to  face 
a  New  England  winter  with  the  calm  assurance 
engendered  by  the  knowledge  that  I,  too,  had  a 
cellar  full  of  vegetables,  'n'  a  bar'l  of  home-raised 
pork,  'n'  sassige  meat,  'n'  hams,  'n'  shoulders,  'n' 
knuckles. 

And  that  is  why  I  bought  pigs  last  spring,  and 
that  is  why  I  gave  up  the  comparative  freedom 
of  the  practice  of  my  profession  for  the  over 
whelming  responsibility  of  raising  a  pair  of  pigs. 

Of  course  I  alleged  it  to  be  the  result  of  pa 
triotism  and  the  awakened  desire  to  do  my  part 
in  reestablishing  on  a  firm  footing  the  war- 
depleted  pork  industry  of  the  country.  This  was 
not  wholly  the  reason.  I  had  long  desired  to  keep 
pigs.  Local  sanitary  prohibition  had  been  re 
voked. 

At  any  rate,  I  feel  like  a  Shylock  when  I  think 
of  subsisting  on  one,  either,  or  both  of  those  pigs. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  if  I  am  as  big  a  fool  as  I 


264      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer  ' 

look.  I  have  been  told  so  plainly  by  some  per 
sons.  I  have  been  assured  by  others  that  such  is 
not  the  case.  There  seems  to  be  some  uncertainty 
about  it.  I  am  undecided  on  two  points.  One  as 
to  the  fact,  the  other  as  to  which  statement  is 
complimentary  or  —  er  —  er  —  otherwise. 

The  ram  came  this  morning  before  breakfast. 
I  went  out  and  helped  the  owner  lift  him  out. 
He  was  a  big  white  chap,  hornless,  with  a  head 
that  had  a  frontlet  as  curved  and  hard  as  an  iron 
ball,  a  massive  neck,  and  the  most  glorious  golden 
eyes  imaginable.  They  reminded  me  very  for 
cibly  of  "Krag,  the  Kootenay  Ram."  He  and 
Betty  made  a  handsome  pair.  He  seemed  as 
docile  as  an  old  ewe,  but,  as  the  owner  said,  a 
ram  is  unreliable.  So  I  shall  keep  my  eye  peeled  to 
guard  against  flank  attacks.  Armed  with  a  club 
I  shall  try  to  win  him  with  appetizing  food  and 
kind  words.  If  he  prefers  to  do  business  with  me 
through  the  medium  of  a  blackthorn  shillalah  or 
a  cart  stake,  well  and  good. 

Sunday,  November  10,  191-.  This  morning  after 
milking  I  went  into  the  sheep  pen.  Betty  came 
running  up  as  usual,  but  the  ram  held  back.  I 
imagine  he  did  not  feel  sufficiently  acquainted. 
I  threw  down  some  hay  and  a  few  turnips  and 
watched  him  carefully,  gradually  drawing  near. 
As  I  approached  holding  out  my  left  hand,  I  saw 


An  Unchristian  Wallop  '  265 

the  light  gradually  go  out  of  his  eyes  leaving 
them  as  cold  and  hard  as  flint.  He  stamped  his 
front  foot,  bent  his  neck,  when  I  handed  him  a 
most  unchristian  wallop  on  his  skull  that  sounded 
like  a  three-base  hit  connecting  with  the  trunk 
of  a  tree. 

He  blinked,  turned  tail  and  ran,  wiggling  his 
tail.  It  is  well  to  have  him  understand  at  the  out 
set  that  he  can't  fool  with  me  for  a  moment.  I 
have  an  idea  that  the  owner  is  laughing  in  his 
sleeve  expecting  that  I  shall  be  careless  and  get 
knocked  endwise.  I  always  wondered  how  it 
was  that  so  many  people  allowed  themselves  to 
be  knocked  down  by  rams,  when  a  little  care,  a 
little  courage,  and  confidence  in  one's  powers  are 
all  that  is  needed  to  insure  mastery  over  the 
largest  and  fiercest  ram  that  ever  wore  a  helmet. 

Monday,  November  11,  191-.  The  ground  was 
frozen  for  the  first  time  to-day.  This  means  a 
speedy  exodus  for  all  the  insectivorous  birds 
except  the  woodpeckers.  I  have  not  seen  the 
grackles  for  two  days  and  I  am  sure  they  have 
gone.  The  robins  still  have  the  berries,  but  they 
will  leave  soon.  The  swallows  have  been  gone 
a  month  or  more,  the  swifts  being  the  last  to  go. 

Tuesday,  November  12, 191-.  Had  to  take  a  crack 
at  the  ram  to-day.  He  began  to  stamp  and  to 


266      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

shake  his  head  the  moment  I  entered  the  pen 
this  morning.  I  did  n't  wait  for  him  to  get  set, 
but  cracked  him  over  the  head  hard  enough  to 
knock  down  a  horse.  It  did  not  knock  him  down 
or  apparently  do  him  any  injury,  but  he  turned 
tail  and  I  chased  him  two  or  three  times  around 
the  pen  to  make  the  lesson  sink  in. 

In  spite  of  this  I  took  care  to  back  out  of  the 
pen  when  I  got  ready  to  leave.  It  is  undignified 
to  go  out  heels  over  head  accompanied  by  the 
rattling  of  two  pails  and  the  unfeeling  laughter  of 
neighbors. 

Wednesday,  November  13,  191-.  My  wife  is  still 
deploring  the  need  of  repairs  on  the  house.  Ac 
cording  to  her  the  place  is'going  to  fall  down  very 
soon  if  something  is  not  done.  I  paid  my  daugh 
ter's  term  bills  to-day  and  a  small  instalment  on 
my  grain  bills.  When  the  pigs  are  killed  my  grain 
bills  will  be  small.  Not  negligible.  No  grain  bills 
are  negligible  in  these  days  of  high  prices.  The 
sheep  eat  but  a  handful,  the  cow  but  a  small 
amount,  but  those  pigs!  Och,  wirrahoo! 

Thursday,  November  14, 191-.  The  first  real  snow 
storm  of  the  season.  It  was  a  dry,  swirling  storm 
that  lasted  a  good  part  of  the  night  and  left  at 
least  six  inches  on  a  level.  There  is  scarcely  any 
thing  more  beautiful  in  nature  than  the  morning 


I  handed  him  a  most  unchristian  wallop 


Snow  and  Chickadees  267 

after  a  snowstorm.  The  sun  striking  the  snow 
crystals  makes  a  million  of  diamond  flashes.  It 
was  so  white  and  smooth  and  unsullied  this  morn 
ing  that  I  hated  to  mar  its  smoothness  by  wading 
through  it.  It  was  sharp  and  cold,  but  I  had 
no  sooner  stepped  out  than  I  heard  that  most 
delightful  sound  of  winter,  the  cheerful  five- 
syllabled  call  of  the  chickadee,  and  saw  a  half- 
dozen  of  the  fluffy,  beady -eyed  little  cupids  on  an 
apple  tree.  There  is  nothing  more  delightful  in 
spring.  It  made  me  feel  good  all  day. 

Friday,  November  15, 191-.  Some  people  there  are 
who  will  not  embark  in  any  important  business 
on  Friday,  such  as  marriages,  divorces,  real  es 
tate  or  stock  deals,  cross -continent  trips  and  the 
like,  and  when  Friday  happens  on  the  13th  they 
will  do  nothing  whatsoever  but  cross  their  fin 
gers,  walk  around  the  table  backwards,  and  re 
peat  gibberish  in  order  to  stall  the  omens. 

I  am  glad  to  say  I  never  had  much  of  that  su 
perstition  in  my  make-up,  and  what  has  happened 
to  me  to-day  is  merely  the  result  of  being  off  my 
guard  for  a  moment  —  the  psychological  mo 
ment,  let  us  say.  I  feel  to-night  like  the  gentle 
man  in  the  "Farmer's  Almanac"  who  is  depicted 
as  having  a  trapdoor  in  his  abdomen,  which  trap 
door  has  been  removed,  leaving  an  unobstructed 
view  of  his  bowels  for  the  curious  public. 


268      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

As  far  as  my  feelings  are  concerned  I  feel  that 
I  can  go  the  trapdoor  gentleman  one  better,  in 
that  not  only  my  trapdoor  has  entirely  disap 
peared,  but  my  bowels  also. 

You  see  the  long-expected  contest  between 
mind  and  matter  has  taken  place,  and  as  is  usually 
the  case,  it  degenerated  into  a  contest  between 
different  entities  in  which  mind  had  little  part. 

I  had  gone  into  the  sheep  pen  feeling  at  peace 
with  all  mankind  and  grateful  for  all  good  things. 
The  big  ram  seemed  quiet  and  docile  and  came 
forward  with  Betty  for  his  share  of  the  carrots 
and  hay.  As  I  noticed  his  evident  respect  for  me, 
I  laid  aside  my  club  and  fed  them,  talking  quietly 
and  stroking  Betty.  Just  for  a  moment  my  at 
tention  was  diverted  by  snow  sliding  off  the  barn 
roof,  when  a  thunderbolt  struck  me  just  above 
the  belt  and  knocked  enough  wind  out  of  me  to 
have  played  a  sonata  for  the  tuba  with  four 
movements  and  all  in  sustained  notes. 

At  the  same  time  I  was  knocked  at  least  ten 
feet,  and  would  undoubtedly  have  gone  much 
farther  had  not  my  head  struck  the  side  of  the 
pen,  lighting  up  the  atmosphere  with  a  shower 
of  comets,  shooting  stars,  pin-wheels,  whistling 
devils,  serpents,  and  every  sort  and  kind  of  pyro 
technics. 

I  thought  my  breath  never  would  return,  al 
though  I  groaned  and  wheezed  and  coughed  and 


I  am  Knocked  Endwise  269 

retched.  I  had  rolled  over  on  my  face  and  lay 
there  wondering  what  I  had  done  to  induce  some 
one  to  bomb  my  premises.  Little  by  little  my 
scattered  wits  returned  as  my  breath  had,  and 
I  raised  my  head  to  see  that  infernal  ram  doing 
a  grotesque  two-step  in  readiness  to  flatten  me 
again  should  I  come  to  the  scratch.  As  he  nodded 
his  head  I  had  a  grotesque  idea  that  he  was  count 
ing  me  out.  So  little  by  little  I  raised  myself  on 
my  hands  when  he  charged  again.  I  dropped  flat 
and  he  went  over  me  like  a  shot  and  struck  the 
side  of  the  pen.  It  was  a  wonder  his  head  did  not 
go  through. 

After  he  had  backed  away  I  still  lay  there 
feeling  curiously  sick  and  hollow,  but  gradually 
feeling  better  and  determined  to  lick  that  ram 
if  I  had  to  bite  him. 

He  was  evidently  in  a  vicious  humor,  for  when 
Betty  got  between  us  he  charged  and  knocked  her 
flat.  By  this  time  I  made  up  my  mind  where  his 
weakness  lay,  and  again  I  raised  myself  on  my 
hands  and  knees  and  he  came  at  me  like  a  bullet, 
but  I  dropped  and  he  went  over  me  as  before,  but 
with  this  difference,  that  before  he  backed  off  I 
had  him  by  the  legs  and  in  another  moment  he 
was  on  his  back  and  I  was  astride  him  hammering 
him  with  both  fists  on  the  nose  and  eyes  as  hard 
and  fast  as  I  could  send  them  in.  He  stood  it 
as  long  as  he  could  and  then  bleated  like  a  lamb, 


270      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

but  I  pounded  him  until  I  had  to  stop  from 
sheer  weariness.  Then  I  wrenched  open  his  mouth 
and  filled  it  with  coarse  sand  and  earth. 

When  I  let  him  up  he  ran  his  head  into  a  corner 
where  he  cowered  and  trembled.  He  was  com 
pletely  humbled,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  think 
he  was  not  nearly  as  badly  shaken  up  as  I  was, 
and  I  don't  believe  his  head  is  any  sorer  than 
my  knuckles  are. 

Saturday,  November  16,  191-.  Pretty  sore  to-day. 
When  I  went  into  the  sheep  pen  the  ram  ran  his 
head  into  the  corner  and  would  n't  come  out. 
I  think  he  thinks  I  am  the  devil.  I  wish  he  had 
thought  so  before  he  hit  me  that  lick. 

Sunday,  November  17,  191-.  The  owner  came  for 
the  ram  to-day.  When  he  went  in  the  ram  ran 
into  the  corner.  He  wanted  to  know  what  I  had 
done  to  him.  I  said  he  had  charged  me  and  I 
had  flopped  him  and  filled  his  mouth  with  sand. 
He  roared  with  laughter  and  appeared  greatly 
pleased.  Perhaps  he  would  not  have  been  so 
pleased  if  he  had  seen  the  fight.  As  the  ram  was 
unhurt  I  thought  it  would  be  as  well  to  cherish 
it  as  a  secret. 

Anyway,  the  devilish  ram  has  been  taken 
away  and  I  am  sure  he  is  much  less  dangerous 
than  before.  Now  I  can  let  Betty  out. 


Chuck!  Woof!  Thud!  Woof!  271 

Monday,  November  18,  191-.  Resumed  work  at 
the  woodpile  to-night  by  lantern  light.  Got  the 
globe  on  the  other  lantern.  It  is  the  first  time  I 
have  managed  to  hit  that  one.  My  skill  is  re 
turning.  I  only  need  practice. 

I  am  wondering  if  it  would  not  be  a  good  idea 
to  offer  a  prize  for  the  man  breaking  the  largest 
number  of  lantern  globes  in  honorable  compe 
tition.  It  would  be  interesting  to  be  able  to  point 
to  the  champion.  Then  if  I  could  excite  sufficient 
competition  I  could  get  my  wood  split  up 
promptly.  And  with  my  undoubted  skill  I  ought 
to  keep  the  prize  at  home.  I  shall  think  it  over. 
It  is  worth  considering. 

Tuesday,  November  19,  191-.  I  remember  a  man 
who  used  to  love  to  split  wood.  He  was  a  well- 
educated  man  and  very  fond  of  reading  and  re 
peating  poetry,  and  he  had  a  way  of  splitting 
wood  with  a  grunt  that  all  real  wood-splitters 
give  and  say  it  keeps  them  from  laming  their 
sides,  and  as  he  split  he  repeated  poetry.  It  was 
a  most  remarkable  and  interesting  exhibition, 
occasionally  with  digressions.  It  was  something 
as  follows: 

"The  curfew  —  chuck!   woof!  —  tolls   the   knell  —  thud! 

woof!  (reversing  the  axe) 

Of  parting  —  thud!  woof!  —  day  —  chuck!  woof! 
The  lowing  herd  —  chuck!  woof!  —  wind  slowly  —  chuck! 

woof! 


272      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

O'er  —  thud!  woof!  —  the  lea  —  thud!  woof! 

The  plough  —  chuck !  woof !  crash !  —  Damn  that  window. 

I  did  n't  think  that  stick  would  go  so  far ! 
Man    homeward  —  chuck!    woof!  —  plods    his    wear  — 

thud !  —  y  way 
And  —  chuck !  woof !  —  Ow !  Ow !  There  I  did  n't  mean  to 

hit  you!  Did  it  hurt?  Well,  I'm  sorry.  I  guess  I've 

done  enough  for  one  day.  Broken  a  window  and 

nearly  broken  your  head ! " 

Wednesday,  November  20, 191-.  As  a  boy  I  always 
dreaded  to  go  in  swimming  in  cold  water.  Most  of 
the  boys  would  rush  in  with  a  shout  and  a  tre 
mendous  splash.  I  would  wade  in  and  shiver  and 
hold  myself  with  both  hands  until  I  got  to  a  cer 
tain  point  when  I  would  go  under  like  a  frog,  and 
I  wondered  why  I  hesitated.  It  was  so  in  making 
up  my  mind  to  have  my  pigs  killed.  I  hated  to 
give  the  word,  and  ducked  and  side-stepped  and 
stalled  and  dawdled  and  postponed  and  manana'd 
until  I  had  waded  to  a  certain  point  of  financial 
indebtedness,  and  then  I  took  the  plunge. 

This  morning  I  sent  word  to  the  man  to  take 
away  the  pigs,  and  left  town  feeling  like  an  ac 
cessory  to  wilful  and  deliberate  murder.  At  noon 
I  was  back  again,  but  the  place  did  not  seem  the 
same.  I  missed  the  raucous  complaints  of  my 
friends  before  their  meals  and  their  satisfied 
grunts  after.  The  barn  seemed  like  Water  Street 
on  the  Sabbath  —  deadly  quiet.  My  cow  might 
low  her  head  off,  my  sheep  bleat  until  her  tongue 


Bereaved  273 

ran  out  a  foot,  my  fowls  crow  and  cackle  until 
their  throats  cracked,  but  the  barn  and  the 
premises  reminded  me  of  Goldsmith's  "Deserted 
Village." 

And  yet  I  was  glad  it  was  over.  Spared  the 
necessity  of  buying  pork  and  lard  and  ham  and 
sausage  and  knuckles  and  head  cheese  and  chit- 
lins  and  sparerib,  I  might  in  time  pay  up  my 
grain  bills  and  be  a  free  man  once  more  —  at 
least  tolerably  free.  There  were  still  the  front 
hall,  the  ceilings  of  the  three  rooms  and  the 
dining-room  to  think  about.  On  the  whole  I  de 
cided  that  I  would  n't  give  away  one  pig,  after 
all.  It  would  save  much  discussion,  some  ill- 
feeling,  and  some  money. 

This  afternoon  the  butcher  called  at  my  office. 
I  was  very  much  pleased  to  see  him,  as  I  had  been 
mentally  computing  the  dressed  weight  of  my 
pigs  at  twenty-three  cents  a  pound  and  upwards. 

Judge  of  my  amazement  and  my  consterna 
tion  when  he  informed  me  that  the  smaller  pig 
was  tubercular. 

"Tubercular!"  I  gasped.  "Why,  you  wild- 
eyed,  staring,  gibbering  idiot,  those  pigs  never 
missed  a  meal  in  their  lives,  never  had  a  sick 
day.  They  have  been  fed  on  sweet  milk  and  boiled 
potatoes  and  corn  meal  and  ground  oats  and 
have  had  dry  quarters  and  plenty  of  sun!  You 
are  crazy,  man!" 


274       The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

"  Wa'al  Squire,  perhaps  I  be,  but  I  know  when 
pigs  is  tubercular  as  well  as  you  know  the  law.  If 
you  don't  believe  it,  send  down  a  vet." 

"I  will,"  I  replied.  And  at  once  called  Dr.  W. 
and  instructed  him  to  repair  with  all  speed  to  the 
shambles  and  to  examine  those  deceased  animals 
for  tuberculosis  and  for  any  and  every  other 
disease  under  the  heavens. 

An  hour  later  the  doctor  informed  me  that 
not  only  one  pig,  but  both  were  far  gone  with 
tuberculosis,  and  should  be  sent  to  the  fertilizer 
factory  as  soon  as  possible;  that  he  had  found 
in  both  animals  marked  evidence  of  Introsus- 
ception,  Valvulus,  Enteritis,  and  Electropium. 

I  asked  the  doctor  if  that  was  all  he  found,  and 
he  replied  that  that  was  all  he  had  found  so  far, 
but  that  by  a  more  complete  examination  he 
might  be  able  to  diagnose  a  few  more  diseases, 
such  as  Thumps,  Rickets,  and  Valvular  Disease 
of  the  Heart. 

I  told  him  that  he  need  make  no  further  ex 
amination  of  the  pigs  for  those  diseases,  but  that 
I  felt  sure  that  I  was  suffering  from  them,  espe 
cially  the  last. 

I  then  asked  him  if  these  diseases,  when  added 
to  the  tuberculosis,  rendered  the  carcasses  any 
less  valuable  than  if  affected  by  the  tuberculosis 
alone. 

He  said  that  he  thought  not;  that,  as  long  as 


A  Red  Rubber  Squeal-Bag  275 

the  tuberculosis  rendered  them  of  no  value  what 
ever,  the  four  other  diseases  found,  and  the  three 
more  that  he  might  have  found,  did  not  affect 
their  value  materially. 

I  told  him  I  was  interested  in  the  poor  ferti 
lizer  man,  who  had  a  hard  time  to  make  a  liv 
ing,  and  that  if  the  carcasses  were  still  good  for 
fertilizer  I  should  feel  as  if  I  had  not  lived  in  vain. 

He  told  me  that  I  need  not  worry  about  that, 
and  then,  for  the  kindly  purpose  of  diverting  my 
thought  into  a  new  channel  of  apprehension,  he 
said  he  would  send  me  his  bill  when  he  had  made 
it  out. 

I  feel  as  I  imagine  a  small  boy  must  feel, 
who  has  saved  money  for  an  entire  year  for  the 
purchase  of  a  red  rubber  squeal-bag  that  soap- 
bubbled  at  the  very  first  blow  and  left  him 
nothing  but  a  red  stick  and  a  host  of  bitter 
memories. 

Thursday,  November  21,  191-.  It  has  been  a  most 
interesting,  amusing,  and  instructive  experi 
ment,  and  cruelly  expensive.  Yet,  being  by  na 
ture  somewhat  optimistic,  I  am  by  no  means 
discouraged  nor  cast  down.  It  is  hard  to  be 
optimistic  with  a  pile  of  unreceipted  grain  bills 
on  my  office  desk,  and  with  the  disturbing  reali 
zation  that  painters,  grainers,  glaziers,  paper- 
hangers,  and  more  or  less  skilled  and  horribly 


276      The  Real  Diary  of  the  Worst  Farmer 

expensive  and  highly  paid  artisans  are  working 
on  the  ceilings  for  the  front  halls  and  three  rooms 
and  on  the  plastering  of  the  dining-room. 

But  there  is  a  bright  side  to  it.  I  still  have  my 
pork  barrel,  and  so  far  no  medical  expert  whether 
homoeopath,  allopath,  or  veterinarian,  has  inti 
mated  that  the  pork  barrel  is  afflicted  with 
Tuberculosis,  Introsusception,  Electropium,  or 
Varicose  Veins,  nor  has  any  living  person  ac 
cused  my  bushel  of  salt  to  be  afflicted  with  Val 
vular  Disease  of  the  Heart.  There  is  great  com 
fort  in  this,  and  I  can  look  into  the  future  with 
some  confidence. 

I  once  knew  a  man  who  built  a  four-hundred- 
and-fifty-dollar  piano-box  buggy  to  match  a 
three-dollar  carriage  mat  that  struck  his  fancy. 
He  had  a  fidelity  to  his  ideals  that  was  admirable, 
although  expensive.  Is  there  any  reason  why  I, 
having  a  pork  barrel  and  a  bushel  of  salt,  should 
not  provide  the  pigs?  It  seems  to  me  to  be  a  sort 
of  sacred  duty.  Some  people  would  be  disheart 
ened  and  quit,  but  not  I.  I  refuse  to  be  crushed, 
although  my  pork  has  cost  me  about  a  dollar  and 
thirty  cents  a  pound  for  every  pound  I  lost  and 
I  am  glad  I  did  not  have  the  pigs  weighed. 

Spring  will  come  again.  And  until  it  comes  and 
I  know  again  the  delights  of  ploughing,  of  plant 
ing,  and  of  cultivating  my  own  crops,  I  may  have 
the  real  satisfying  pleasure  of  milking,  bedding, 


I  still  have  my  pork  barrel 


The  Rose  of  the  After  Sunset  277 

feeding,  and  caring  for  my  stock  twice  a  day  by 
lantern  light.  And  it  is  a  pleasure  to  see  them 
warm  and  well  fed  and  comfortable. 

And  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  get  about  one  egg 
in  three  days  from  thirty  hens  during  the  winter, 
and  on  the  days  when  I  get  the  one  egg  I  shall 
rejoice  in  the  mathematical  certainty  that  the 
one  egg  is  just  so  much  more  than  if  they  had  not 
laid  at  all.  Oh,  there  is  a  pleasant  side  to  every 
thing  if  you  only  look  for  it! 

And  the  all-too-short  winter  days  in  the  office 
will  be  crowded  with  the  intensely  interesting 
details  of  a  general  practice  which  will  eventu 
ally,  I  trust,  pay  those  grain  bills  before  the  time 
comes  to  contract  others.  And  every  pleasant 
day,  as  the  afternoon  wears  on  and  the  shadows 
begin  to  deepen,  I  may  look  across  the  square 
to  the  west  where  the  tall  elms  and  the  colonial 
houses  stand  stark  and  black  against  the  rose  of 
the  after  sunset,  and  as  this  fades  into  darkness 
a  single  brilliant  star  appears,  telling  me  that  an 
other  day  of  professional  work  is  ended,  and  that 
it  is  time  to  get  into  my  barn  clothes  and  assume 
my  badges  of  labor,  the  lantern,  the  shovel,  and 
the  pitchfork. 


THE  END 


(Cfie  nitirrsibc  prrs£ 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


502 


SfSSSKSSS   *!-  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


